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

by Jane Finnis

  He scratched his head. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t believe that was an attack on Plautius. The dagger was meant for Idmon himself.”

  “The bodyguard? But I was told nobody knew he was sleeping in his master’s bed, except Plautius himself, and Timaeus.”

  “Stuff and rubbish! Everyone knew, they were just very careful not to show it. Gnaeus had used a slave as a decoy before, several times. He may have thought it was a closely guarded secret, but you know how slaves gossip.”

  “Who’d want to kill the guard, though?”

  “Ah, now, that I haven’t worked out yet.”

  “So you’re suggesting there are two murderers—one who killed Idmon and then Leander, and another who killed Plautius? With respect, that takes some believing.”

  “With respect!” he mimicked. “I was right, you’re almost a lawyer already.”

  “I think women might make good lawyers, if men would allow them to. We’d cut to the chase when we were making our speeches, instead of spending hours waffling.”

  “But if we didn’t spend hours waffling, how would we justify our fees?”

  “You’ve got a point there.” I laughed, and then yawned. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a bit sleepy.”

  “Well, before you have your nap, let me tell you something I think you should know. Only will you swear you won’t pass it on to Sempronia?”

  “Yes. But I may need to tell Quintus Antonius.”

  “Oh, I’m assuming you will. Now you know I promised poor Plautius that I wouldn’t let Sempronia force him to make a new will.”

  “I remember. Because he felt vulnerable and could only concentrate for short spells of time. He seemed a good deal better yesterday, I thought.”

  “He was. But Sempronia never stopped nagging him, cajoling, bullying, on and on. If he wouldn’t have a new will drawn up, then would he make the changes she wanted to the existing document? We’d worked out what we would do if she became too insistent, and in the end he agreed to make one change to the will itself, and add a codicil.”

  “I heard about the change. He crossed out the paragraph that would have freed Diogenes.”

  “You’re well-informed, m’dear. It was the only one of Sempronia’s alterations that he felt like making, and of course she was delighted. And then when he added a codicil disinheriting Decimus, she really thought she’d won. But she hadn’t.”

  “But she had, if Candidus has lost his inheritance.”

  “Ah, but he hasn’t. You can’t use a codicil to disinherit an important member of the family, like the eldest son. That needs a much more formal procedure.”

  The phrase “with respect” took on a new meaning. “So the codicil isn’t legally binding?”

  He chuckled. “No. Never stand up in court, if anyone challenged it, which they won’t. Decimus keeps his inheritance, and I’ve kept my promise.”

  “Have you told Sempronia?”

  “Yes. Not immediately we opened the will, naturally. I let a bit of time go by, during which I ‘discovered my error’.” He laughed heartily. “She wasn’t very happy.”

  “And she doesn’t know that you realised the codicil wasn’t valid?”

  “No, she thinks I made a foolish mistake, and she’s called me all sorts of names because of what she regards as my carelessness. But if I let rows with Sempronia disturb me, I’d have gone out of my mind long ago.”

  “This is none of my business, Horatius, but I can’t help saying congratulations. I’m sure Plautius’ shade appreciates what you did.”

  He nodded. “When you go to Eburacum and see Decimus, can you let him know what I’ve just told you?”

  “Yes, if you like. But why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  He looked out of the window, then round the room, anywhere but into my eyes.

  “It’s awkward, d’you see. If I’d let Sempronia have the changes she wanted, it would have been rather more to my advantage than keeping the old will.”

  “But I thought the existing will bequeaths Margarita to you?”

  He shrugged. “It does, but I’m not such a fool as you all think me. I can’t take Margarita, not if Priscus wants her. If we ever find her, I’ll give her her freedom, and she can choose for herself. She’ll choose Priscus, for certain.”

  “That’s generous, Horatius. You’re fond of her, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” He sighed. “But the thing is, I’m financially in rather a pickle just at present. Got a bit carried away betting at the races last summer. It’s only temporary, of course. But Sempronia had promised me that if I got the will changed, or a new one made, my debts would be paid off. However, it’s not to be. And Sempronia’s so annoyed with me now that she won’t even pay me the fee we agreed. But Decimus is head of the family, and perhaps if he could see his way….” He tailed off, but I’d got the message.

  “I’ll make sure he knows that you did the honourable thing, even though it went against your own interests. He’s an honourable man himself, and he’s also rich now, thanks to you. Leave it with me.”

  “Thank you, m’dear. You’re leaving for Eburacum tomorrow?”

  “Quintus and I are, yes.”

  “So am I. So are we all. Clarilla is letting us use her house there.”

  “I know. We’ll be staying at the mansio near the fortress. You’ll be glad to get home to Londinium, I expect.”

  “I can’t say this has been a pleasant trip. Feels like the end of an era, now poor Plautius is gone.” He wiped his eyes and sniffed. His mood was slipping gently from mellow to maudlin. “You’ll be looking for Diogenes and Priscus?”

  “We will, though Quintus doesn’t think we’ve much chance of finding Diogenes. And we’ll be searching for Margarita and Gaius too, of course. There’s a slave auction the day after tomorrow. If the kidnappers have sold the pair of them on to one of the major dealers, we should be able to buy them back.”

  “I do hope so. I think Plautius and Sempronia were quite wrong, you know, to get rid of them like that.” He clasped my hand for a heartbeat. “I know you’ll do your best, m’dear. And now I’ll leave you to your nap. You’ll need all your strength for tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  We left Clarus’ villa before dawn next morning, to make the most of the winter day. I don’t know why the gods, who give Britannia so much beauty, have to be so tight-fisted when they dole out our ration of daylight for the winter months. If you ask priests about it, they solemnly tell you the gods move in mysterious ways, which means they don’t know either.

  We went back to the Oak Tree first. I’d sent a message there the previous afternoon about our travel arrangements, so all I needed to do when I arrived was have a few words with the senior staff and collect some clothes. The Saturnalia party had apparently been a huge success, and everyone said I should have been there. I answered truthfully, I only wished I had been.

  From the mansio to Eburacum is about sixteen miles on good Roman roads. The journey was uneventful, especially for me, because I slept through most of it. Quintus and I travelled in the large raeda, with Titch driving, and Taurus riding alongside as guard. When we set off, I was full of good intentions about making use of the quiet, uninterrupted journey to discuss our investigations. But my tired body wanted to relax. I leant against Quintus’ shoulder and fell asleep soon after we passed the Oak Bridges turning.

  I woke up as we reached the town, about two hours before dark. The streets were lively, the food-shops and taverns doing good holiday business. Everywhere there were people strolling about in the winter sunshine, and we passed a couple of acrobats and a troupe of street musicians entertaining the crowds. Brocchus’ mansio was near the fortress, in the civilian quarter—the camp, as the locals still called it, because that’s how it had started. When we first came to Brigantia half a generation ago, there was just a higgledy-piggledy maze of unpaved streets crammed with houses and shops, for the soldiers’ families mostly. Then some
enterprising civilians realised what a good living they could make from the army, and the place was now a thriving little town, with its main streets paved or gravelled, and an open space for markets.

  Titch knew Eburacum well, having been brought up there, and he drove us straight to the mansio. It was a substantial two-storey building, with a courtyard behind it and stables alongside. I knew the innkeeper Brocchus, a wiry curly-haired veteran, who greeted us cheerfully and showed us into a pleasant set of rooms overlooking the fortress. The solid military bulk of the Ninth Legion’s headquarters was very Roman and reassuring, but being used to the country, I found it strange to be in the middle of so many buildings. I felt that if we’d been much closer to the fortress, the sentries on the ramparts would have been able to watch us in bed.

  We went down into the bar, where Rufus was waiting for us, and Titch and Taurus had already made themselves at home.

  “The food’s good here,” Rufus greeted us, “and the wine’s not too bad.”

  Brocchus came over to join us. “You’d like a bite to eat, I expect, and something to drink. What can I get you?”

  The others looked hungrily around the crowded room, and I was hungry and thirsty too, but I didn’t want to have to spend the meal fending off Brocchus’ questions. So I said, “We’ll have a stroll first, and come back later. Brocchus, which is the quickest way to the warehouses for the cargo-boats that trade down-river?”

  “They’re a bit of a way down-stream, on the main river. There’s a path of sorts runs along by the water. Who is it you’re looking for?”

  “A friend of ours called Candidus. He’s set up as a trader, and gone into partnership with a river pilot they call the Skipper. We thought we’d pay him a visit while we’re in town.”

  “I heard something about them joining forces,” Brocchus said seriously. “If you don’t mind a bit of advice, tell your friend to be careful. The Skipper isn’t a man I’d want to be in partnership with.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s fine most of the time. He’s a bit of a rascal, no worse than any other boatman, but he’s over-fond of his wine. Drinks too much, too often, sometimes for days at a stretch. When he’s drunk, he’s too fuddled to work, but he still has enough energy to get into fights.”

  “Sounds like an innkeeper’s delight,” Quintus joked, “as long as he’s got the cash to pay his bar bill.”

  Brocchus shook his head. “I don’t let him in here no more. Causes too much trouble. I don’t know where he drinks these days, but they’re welcome to him.”

  After he’d gone, Rufus said quietly, “He goes to the Wolf’s Head. I saw him there yesterday. Scruffy place, and dreadful beer, but cheap.”

  “Good. We’ll pay it a visit,” Quintus said. “Have you found any trace of our two runaways?”

  “Not a sign so far, no. I’ve put the word about, and left a message for—the other man you wanted me to contact.”

  “Thanks. So where is this Wolf’s Head? Is it far from here?”

  “Nothing’s very far from anything in this town.” Rufus looked at me doubtfully. “It’s no place for a lady though.”

  “Then I’d better not look like one, had I?” I’d remembered to bring an old scruffy cloak in case I needed a disguise, and I went and put it on.

  Rufus grinned and said, “Quite a transformation! You’ll do. But you still sound like a lady when you open your mouth.”

  “You reckon so, do you, you red-haired toe-rag?” I said in British, with a good Brigantian accent.

  Rufus laughed. “You’ll do!” He turned to Quintus. “Am I coming along with you? Only I’ve arranged to try out the night-life with your two lads, if you don’t need me.”

  “Then enjoy it,” Quintus smiled. “Just make sure you’re all here at dawn tomorrow, ready for a hard day’s work.”

  The Wolf’s Head was a small unkempt place which had once been painted a garish red, in a narrow unpaved back street. It was crowded and smoky from poor-quality lamp oil, but we found a small table, and Quintus ordered drinks and a hot meal. An over-painted barmaid brought us pork and vegetable hot-pot, which was greasy and hadn’t enough spices, and the red wine was rough. But we hadn’t come here for the food.

  The customers were mostly soldiers and their women, and the occasional trader. But standing at the bar counter were several men who, to judge from their loud chatter, were river pilots and boatmen. Quintus leaned across the table and said quietly, “Watch that tall fellow in the middle. I’m pretty sure I heard him say Albia’s name.”

  He was a huge man, broad and muscular, with brown hair and beard, and a scar on his forehead shaped like a fish. Not a local from Eburacum, to judge by his accent—I guessed he came from a district further north. He was getting cheerfully drunk when we started our meal, and by the time we finished it we didn’t have to make any effort to hear what he was saying, or rather shouting. He was telling nautical stories and jokes, and when he began to sing, one of the men at a nearby table called out, “Shut up, Skipper, you’ll crack the mugs with that row.”

  Could this be the Skipper, Candidus’ new partner? Or was Skipper simply a title given to boat captains in general? He stopped singing and said loudly, “You’re no fun these days, Gavo. Here I am, money in my hand and wanting to celebrate, and all you can do is tell me to shut up!”

  “I never mind helping a friend enjoy himself,” Gavo said cheerfully, “so you can buy me a drink to make up for that awful noise. What are we celebrating?”

  “I’ve found a partner to invest in my boat at last,” the big man said. “Just in time, too. The man who sold it me was getting very impatient for his money. Now I’m going to be rich, lads, rich and respectable. I’m sacrificing a bull-calf to Fortuna tomorrow, to say thank you.”

  “A bull-calf? Gods, this must be something good!” Gavo laughed. “Does the poor chump know that one bad storm would send your old tub to the bottom to feed the fishes?”

  “Rubbish! Solid and respectable, it is, like me. Guaranteed not too leaky, and can’t abide being dry.” He bellowed for another jug of wine, and several more bystanders gathered round, intent on helping him drink it. To stop him singing again, they asked him about his new partner.

  “Just the sort of investor a man wants,” he replied, his speech slurring a little. “Up from the south country, plenty of money, nice manners, and innocent as a new-born babe! He believes every daft thing I tell him! Talk about pleased with himself—you’d think I’d given him half the boat, not made him pay through the nose for it. Keeps on and on about the importance of trade, and making the world more civilised.” He spat scornfully. “Well I’ll trade with any man, as long as he puts gold in my hand. ‘Sell the best,’ that’s always been my philosophy.”

  “Aye, we all know your philosophy, Skipper,” Gavo grinned.

  “The only thing I’ve had to do—no, you’ll never believe this!”

  He paused till someone obligingly asked, “Go on then, what?”

  “Change the name of my frigging boat so it’s called after his girlfriend. Of all the crazy ideas! But I don’t care, as long as his money’s good. So if any of you gentlemen want to find my beautiful boat from now on, look for the Albia. Albia! Makes you laugh, doesn’t it?”

  But Quintus and I weren’t laughing. We finished our meal and got out of there as fast as we could without making it obvious.

  It was growing dark now, but there were a few torches in brackets on the walls of bars like the Wolf’s Head, to attract evening customers. All the same we didn’t want to be on the streets after nightfall, so we began to walk back to the mansio. We’d only gone fifty paces or so, when a figure came racing towards us, and Quintus’ hand went to his dagger. But he relaxed when we recognised Titch.

  “What’s the hurry, Victor?” Quintus smiled. “Have you stolen somebody’s girlfriend already?”

  “I’ve seen that man Otus,” he panted. “Drinking in a bar, and I heard him say he’s on his way to the Wolf’s Head. Only
then he spotted me, so I legged it to warn you. He’ll not be far behind.”

  “Thanks. Let’s move. Can we get out down there?” Quintus pointed back the way we’d come.

  “Nah, blind alley. Back up here, then first right. I’ll show you.” He turned and started to run like a hare. As we followed, I looked up the street, trying to see into the shadows, but there could have been half a cohort hidden in the semi-darkness. We reached the small turning and dived thankfully round the corner, and then a voice roared out behind us, “There he goes! He’s stolen my money! Stop thief! Stop thief!”

  We could hear heavy footsteps pounding along after us, and we headed into an even smaller alleyway. Otus had seen or guessed our line of escape, and he continued to shout as he chased us, but not for long. Nobody in this section of town was going to help apprehend a thief. They’d be more inclined to help one than hinder.

  We ran through the shadows along a little lane which twisted between blank-walled buildings. Titch led us confidently on, weaving and winding through a maze of alleys, mostly so narrow you could stand in the middle and touch both walls. But we didn’t stand, we raced on, only twice pausing to listen. The heavy pursuing footfalls were still there, but fainter. I thanked the gods that Titch knew this area of Eburacum so well. I’d lost all sense of direction and distance, and the empty little streets all looked the same. It felt like one of those nightmares where you are pursued by a terrifying monster, and you must run for your life. Only this time we couldn’t escape the terror by waking up.

  Eventually we erupted into a small dim square between high walls. It contained a large rubbish-heap, and several rats fled as we approached. Nobody had put torches up here, and the smell was appalling. But I could feel a misty damp in the air, which must mean we were near the river. Titch stopped so abruptly we almost ran into him. “Quiet now!” he whispered. I held my breath and listened.

  Silence. No footsteps pelting behind us, no enraged shouting, no pursuit of any kind. There was just the faint lapping of water nearby, and the sound of our panting, when we all started to breathe again.