by Jane Finnis
Priscus was dismayed. “But how will we know where to find them? To hand over the rest of the ransom and get them back? I suppose they’ll send us a message. Merda, more waiting! And my poor Margarita and Gaius, prisoners all night in the cold!”
“Prisoners for good, I’m afraid,” Quintus said gently. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Priscus, but I think you’ll be lucky to see either of them again.”
“But Diogenes said he’d be taking the rest of the ransom to the gang as soon as Father could raise the money. He told me it would only be a matter of days…. Why are you looking at me like that, as if you don’t believe a word I’ve said?”
“I don’t believe a word Diogenes said, and neither should you. I’m afraid I’ve got some information that will upset you, Priscus. Diogenes has arranged for you to be released, but for the kidnappers to keep Margarita and Gaius.”
“Keep them? But when Father sends the rest of the money….”
“He isn’t going to send any more money.”
Priscus shrank away, as if he’d received a physical blow. “You mean—he’s agreed that the gang will keep Margarita and Gaius for good?”
Quintus nodded. “Yes. But more likely they’ll be sold rather than kept. They’ll fetch plenty at the Eburacum slave market.”
“No! No, I can’t believe it. How in Jupiter’s name do you know all this?” Priscus sounded almost accusing. “Did the kidnappers tell you? Or Diogenes?”
“Of course not. But I caught most of their conversation. After Aurelia was marched out of earshot, Diogenes and Otus and a couple of his men held a meeting in the clearing, to discuss what to do with you and the others. They assumed they were safe from eavesdroppers, standing in the middle of a wide open space.”
“You managed to overhear them? I don’t see how! We couldn’t catch anything they said from inside the roundhouse. We tried.”
“I couldn’t hear their voices, but I watched their lips move.” He smiled at me. “Aurelia, you’ve heard me speak of my old Aunt Antonia?”
“Yes. She lives in Rome, and spoils her nephew disgracefully.”
“More to the point, she’s stone deaf. She has been for years. But she’s learned the art of interpreting what people say from the way their lips move, without needing to catch the sounds. She taught the trick to me when I was a boy.”
“I don’t believe you, you cocky bastard.” I mouthed the words soundlessly, and he laughed.
“Aurelia says she doesn’t believe me because I’m a cocky bastard. Well, I’m a cocky bastard who can read people’s lips. I managed to follow most of Diogenes’ negotiations with the gang, except for one man, because he stood with his back to me the whole time.”
“How thoughtless of him,” I mouthed.
Quintus nodded. “Yes, Aurelia, it was extremely thoughtless, but one has to put up with these things.” He became serious again. “Priscus, are you satisfied that I can give you a reasonable account of what was said today?”
Priscus hesitated, then mouthed a few silent words.
Quintus nodded. “He says, ‘I’ll believe you if you can understand me, otherwise it’s just a trick.’”
“Very well, I’m convinced,” Priscus agreed. “Go on.”
“Wait,” Albia cut in suddenly. “There’s something I need to see to in the kitchen before we start. Relia, could you come and help me please?”
Priscus began to object, but I recognised that Albia had something urgent to say, so I got up to follow her. “I expect it’s about the beans,” I said, for Quintus’ benefit. “We won’t be long.”
“Gods,” Horatius muttered, “Sempronia isn’t the only woman who likes ordering everyone around.”
“These two usually do it with more tact than Sempronia,” Quintus answered.
I mouthed something very rude in his direction, and we went into the kitchen. There, calmly sitting at the big table, was Candidus. They both laughed when they saw my surprise.
“Sorry, Relia,” Albia said. “He arrived at midday. He’d heard rumours about the kidnapping, and wanted to be sure I was all right. We were going to tell you.”
“And I’m the Queen of Brigantia! You just enjoy sneaking around like a couple of sixteen-year-olds avoiding a disapproving father.”
“It has its attractions,” Candidus grinned. “But I’m not sure whether I should stay out of the way tonight. I don’t want to upset my brother any more than he’s upset already.”
“Why should your being here upset him?”
“I’m afraid he may resent what I’ve done, running away and everything. It dumps all the family responsibility onto his shoulders.”
“Listen, children.” I wagged my finger at them. “You can’t play hide-and-seek like this. And I for one am glad to see you, Candidus. It means you’ll be coming with us to Silvanius’ banquet tomorrow, doesn’t it?”
“I doubt it.”
“Of course it does. Clarus wants you to be there, and more important, your father wants to see you. He asked me to get a message to you, only with all this hostage business I hadn’t done it. He says he won’t consider going back to Londinium until he’s had a chance to talk to you.”
“Which means,” Albia put in, “that your parents may be trailing round Brigantia for months, just because you’re being stubborn. Your father’s ill. Your mother’s….”
“Giving everyone a hard time,” Candidus finished. “I suppose, if you put it like that, I’d better come. After all, what harm can it do? I’ve only got to see him, not change my mind about anything.”
I expect my sigh of relief was audible in Oak Bridges.
“Meantime,” he looked at Albia, “do you think Aurelia’s right, and I ought to go in there and have it out with Priscus?”
“I’m always right, it’s a well-known fact. Get it over, that’s my advice. And I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I believe Priscus rather admires the stand you and Albia are taking. So you might find you have an ally against your parents.”
When Candidus entered the bar-room, there was a stunned silence for a few heartbeats. Then Priscus jumped up and ran to him, and they embraced like—well, like long-lost brothers. Far from resenting Candidus, Priscus was overjoyed to see him. They hadn’t set eyes on each other for three years, and it was good to see the happiness their reunion brought them.
We ate dinner sitting round the bar-room fire, and Albia and I brought the food in ourselves, so we could talk without any of the servants overhearing. The meal was simple compared with the fare we’d given our guests on previous nights: venison stew with vegetables and fresh bread, followed by cheese, nuts, and raisins, and washed down with Falernian.
While we ate, Quintus told us about the exchange he’d heard—or should I say seen?—in the clearing that morning. “Otus and Diogenes did most of the talking. Diogenes began by saying he had his master’s authority to negotiate, and he even produced a papyrus to prove it.”
“You couldn’t see that, surely.” Priscus was clearly still sceptical.
“No, but Otus read it out to the other two men. It appeared to be from Plautius, giving Diogenes full power to act for him and Sempronia.”
“Do you think Father could have written something like that?” Candidus looked at Priscus.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Or perhaps the Weasel forged it. I’ll find out. Sorry, Antonius, go on.”
“First of all Diogenes offered the twenty gold pieces he’d brought along as full ransom for all three prisoners, and Otus laughed in his face. So Diogenes suggested that they should release Priscus in exchange for the twenty aurei, and keep the other two, to do as they liked with. He made a point of how valuable they were.”
There was a shocked exclamation from Candidus, and Priscus used some barrack-room language to describe Diogenes.
Quintus took a couple of mouthfuls of stew. “Otus liked that idea, and his two men seemed happy with it. One of them asked Otus what he proposed doing with Margarita and Gaius. He said he�
�d sell them to a slave dealer he knew, who’d either auction them in Eburacum, or maybe send them for sale down south, where they’d fetch a good price. Whatever money is made will be divided up among the gang.”
“Down south!” Priscus repeated, appalled.
“One of the men, the one I couldn’t see, seemed to be insisting the prisoners should belong to the gang as a whole and be used by all of them, but Otus said he would punish anyone who laid a finger on either prisoner. Not from moral scruples, of course, but they’ll be much more valuable if they’re sold in good condition.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” Priscus said sadly.
“Did you happen to see any discussion about why they decided to capture me?” Well, naturally I was curious.
Quintus smiled grimly. “Oh yes. Diogenes told Otus to imprison you for a day or two to teach you a lesson, then let you go even if no ransom was paid. It seems he doesn’t like you much.”
“It’s mutual.”
Priscus turned and asked me, “When’s the next slave auction?”
“Four days from now, I think.”
“In the middle of the holiday?” Horatius was scandalised. “They can’t do that, surely.”
“We only celebrate Saturnalia for three days in this district,” I explained, “because of being quite near the frontier. There’s always a slave auction a day or two after the holiday, and before the beginning of January.”
“Then if they’re being sold there, we can buy them back,” Priscus said.
“That certainly seems like the simplest solution,” Quintus agreed. “Not the cheapest, though. Especially if you find yourself bidding against the pimps the army officers use.” He saw Priscus wince, and added, “Sorry, Priscus, but we’ve got to face it. And there’s always the chance that Otus may decide to send them down south instead.”
“I’ll find them,” Priscus said. “Wherever they go, I’ll find them, and whatever it costs, I’ll get them back.” He looked at us all with cold fury. “I call on the gods to witness, I won’t rest till they are safe again. And if anything happens to either of them, Diogenes will pay for it. I swear it!”
There are few things more frightening than a mild man provoked beyond endurance. As our grandmother used to say, when a worm turns, it changes into a crocodile.
We finished our meal in silence, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who thought about the two prisoners out in the cold somewhere, and wondered what, if anything, they were eating tonight.
Horatius, now well lubricated, broke the pensive mood by telling Candidus about the fight between Timaeus and Diogenes.
“Is that why you came back to the mansio?” Candidus asked. “Mother was in one of her rages, and you thought you’d be safer out of the way?”
“She was in a bit of a mood, yes. But usually I don’t mind her. I’m used to her, and you generally just have to sit tight and wait till she calms down.” He sighed. “But this afternoon I had a serious argument with her, and for once I wasn’t prepared to let her bully me. It concerned you two boys, in a way.”
Priscus asked, “What was it about? Or would you rather not say?”
“On the contrary, I think I’d like you to know.” Horatius glanced uneasily at me and Albia. I realised he’d prefer to talk to the others privately, and I couldn’t think of any reason for including us in the discussion, much as I wanted to be there. So I got to my feet. “Would you like us to leave?”
But Candidus put an arm round Albia. “Albia is as good as family now. If she leaves, so do I.”
“And Aurelia,” Quintus said, “is an excellent investigator, and is involved in your family’s affairs, after today. She should stay too. I can vouch for her discretion.”
“All right. It was about Plautius and his will. You all know Sempronia wants Plautius to alter it, to disinherit Decimus. Apart from a few minor legacies, the whole estate will be divided between Priscus and Sempronia herself, and Decimus, you won’t get a copper coin.”
“I know,” Candidus answered, “and I couldn’t care less. I had all this out with Mother yesterday.”
“The argument was about whether he ought to make a completely new will, or alter the existing one. Sempronia wants him to include some other changes too, and thinks it would be simpler and tidier to draw up a fresh document.”
“What changes?” Candidus asked.
“She wants him to free Margarita, for one thing. And not to free Diogenes, for another. The existing will frees the Weasel, and it bequeaths Margarita and Gaius to me.”
“To you?” Priscus exclaimed. “I never knew that.”
“Sempronia wants her out of your reach for good, so she’s pushing Plautius to free her, on condition she leaves your household and has nothing more to do with you. She thinks that then you’ll agree to make a political marriage.”
“I won’t.”
“You will, you know. I’ve said it before, you’ll have to give in one fine day, and accept an arranged marriage.”
Priscus looked at him sharply. “Mother told me once that she thought Father ought to put a clause in his will cancelling all your debts to our family, and leaving you a decent legacy. That was after the business of the senator’s nephew and the gladiators, when we had to—well, never mind. Would there be a clause along those lines in the new version?”
Whether Horatius blushed, I couldn’t be sure, because his face was already so red. “Yes, actually there would. But that’s irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is. Because I’ve refused to draw up a fresh will. Plautius doesn’t want it, and I don’t think it would be fair on him. Any changes that are needed will be made to the existing will, by way of a codicil. I told Sempronia this, and she exploded. But I’m insisting on it.”
Priscus looked puzzled. “I don’t see what difference it makes, Horatius. Why is it so important? New or old, Father’s so ill now, he isn’t in a position to sign any will, is he?”
“That’s the whole point. He’s very weak, and he knows it. He can only concentrate on family matters for a short while, then he has to rest. To get to grips with a completely new will would be too much for him until he’s got his strength back. And he’s afraid Sempronia might manage to force him to sign and seal it anyway, even if he hadn’t been able to give it his full attention.”
“Could she do that? What about the witnesses?”
“She could make it look as if she’s helping him—guide his hand to sign it, use his ring to seal it. If I wasn’t present, the witnesses wouldn’t realise.”
“It would be tantamount to forgery, though,” Quintus said. “You’re saying Sempronia is capable of that? It’s a serious charge, Horatius.”
“Believe me, I’m not making it lightly. And that’s why I’ve promised Plautius that there will be no new will, until his health improves and he can instruct me in person, in writing, and I’m satisfied that he’s lucid. But if he wants to add to the old one, even alter it a little, I’ll help him do that. It will be easier for him, because he’s familiar with what it says, and we can make any alterations slowly, one at a time, when he feels up to it.”
Candidus said, “May I ask if he’s made any alterations yet?”
“No. He was in no state to do it today. Any sort of travel tires him out, you know. Tomorrow—well, we’ll see.”
“It sounds to me,” I said, “as if he doesn’t want to make the new changes that Sempronia is so keen on, and this is his way of avoiding them.”
Horatius chuckled. “You’ve got it, m’dear. He doesn’t. He may or may not decide to cut Decimus out of the will, but as for the other bequests, he says he prefers to leave things as they stand for now.”
Priscus sighed. “I spoke to Timaeus about Father’s health yesterday. He isn’t optimistic, I’m afraid. I must say I was hoping that if anyone could cure Father, Timaeus could. He’s a good doctor, and is devoted to Father. Until we started all this travelling, he seemed to be getting better, and his mind’s
never lost its sharpness, even when his body is weak. But now—well, it doesn’t look so hopeful.”
“No,” Horatius agreed. “If he continues as he is today, Plautius will have to use all his strength to exercise his authority as head of the family. But a man should be master in his own house. He’s told me what he wants, and I intend to see that his wishes are carried out. I hope you two boys accept that.” He glanced enquiringly at Candidus, then at Priscus. They both nodded.
“Is he well guarded at Silvanius’ villa?” I asked. “He was worried about his safety. He’s a brave man, but the attempt to murder him here upset him more than he wanted to admit.”
“That was all cleared up, surely,” Priscus said, “when Leander committed suicide and left a note confessing that he’d tried to murder Father.”
“It wasn’t suicide,” I corrected him. “Someone killed Leander and left a forged confession.”
Priscus turned on me angrily. “That’s outrageous! You knew this, and you didn’t tell anyone? So the real murderer is still free, waiting for another chance to kill my father?”
“It’s the way your father wanted things. He thought we had a better chance of catching the murderer if we could put him off guard. He asked me not to tell anyone, so I haven’t, till now.”
“She’s right,” Quintus confirmed. “Plautius made the decision. Aurelia followed it.”
“He is the most extraordinary man,” Horatius said. “I remember once, when we were all in Italia….” He embarked on a long family reminiscence, but I felt my attention wandering, as a feeling of utter weariness crept over me. The combination of a hard day, a warm room, and plenty to eat and drink was making me sleepy. The conversation flowed around me in an increasingly meaningless blur, until I felt a hand on my shoulder and found Albia bending over me. “Relia, you’re almost asleep. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
I was only too grateful when she led me to my room and helped me into bed. She tucked my blankets round me, and I was asleep almost before my head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER XIX
The next morning the snow had more or less gone, leaving the ground wet and slushy under a blue sky. As I stepped out onto the forecourt, I thanked the gods that our journey to Silvanius’ villa was to be along good Roman roads, properly drained and serviceable in all weathers. The muddy native so-called roads are simply beaten tracks, a mess all winter long. But excellent though it was, our main road hadn’t a man or a beast on it, and I guessed the mansio would have another quiet day, with only a handful of customers.
