Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  “Neither have I.” I regret that sometimes. Stuck in the wilds here, it feels as if I’ll never get there now. Our family home was in Pompeii, and after we lost that, we left Italia. Britannia was the coming province, the place for Romans to make their fortunes, or so my father believed. Father had left the army by then, a successful centurion with a good reputation and a nice little nest-egg. First we lived in an army settlement, and then—no, you don’t want the whole long story. The important point is that he got the concession to set up the mansio here seven years ago, and Albia and I gradually took over the running of it. It’s in our brother Lucius’ name of course, but we all knew he’d never settle down to being an innkeeper, and though I say it myself, Albia and I have made a pretty good job of it. All the same, I shouldn’t like to think I’d never see Italia again.

  “I was still a girl when we came to Britannia,” I said. “And you were only a lad yourself, Taurus.”

  “Yes.” He gave his slow grin. “Your dad bought me for a page-boy. Only I kept spilling things.”

  I smiled, remembering a couple of disastrous dinner parties where expensive wine ended up splashed over even more expensive gowns. “You’re an outdoor man, no doubt about it. Which is more useful when your home’s in a frontier province.”

  “So we do belong here, then. And this warning must be for new people coming over from Rome now. Don’t you think so?” His dark eyes looked anxiously for reassurance.

  “Yes, it must.” But I felt a shiver of cold doubt inside me. The message said “All Romans,” and we’re Romans. Me, Albia, Taurus, and the half-dozen others we brought with us from Italia…a handful of Romans, surrounded by countless thousands of native Britons: peasants, craftsmen, traders, and of course our locally bought slaves. We think we’re at home, established and permanent. We’ve made Britannia part of the Empire. But this Shadow of Death, whoever he is, sees things differently and wants us out.

  It came to me then, with frightening clarity: supposing other native Britons want us out? Supposing they all do?

  Chapter II

  I shook myself out of my gloomy pondering and went into the private dining-room where Albia had served bread and cheese and olives, and some reasonable Rhodian to go with it. Junius’ friend Marius had surfaced by now, and so had our other three guests, two military contractors and a silver mine expert. The smell of the new bread reminded me I hadn’t eaten yet, so I cut a crusty hunk of it, and had a drink—water, not wine, in deference to my hangover, which had started to recede. I began to feel better as I listened to the young tribunes cheerfully planning their day’s hunting.

  I began planning my own day. I must go outside and check on the stables. The stable-lads were short-handed, but they should cope. All the same, it did no harm to make sure they weren’t cutting corners. We’re an official mutatio, a posting-station where travellers on government business change horses or mules, and our operation has to be clean and efficient. There was the farm work, too; I liked to keep an eye on our farm foreman, who was competent enough, but inclined to be lazy. Then there was a delivery of olive oil due from one of the wholesalers, and his men needed supervising because they seemed to be under permanent instruction to rip us off. And this afternoon, I was expecting a visit from one of the larger fish in our small provincial pond, the Chief of the Oak Bridges Town Council, no less. He was doing his own bit of supervising, presumably, because we were supplying him with wine for an important dinner. And of course I must make time to see my beautiful black horses, my own special bit of farming enterprise.

  But before all that, we’d better move our unconscious visitor to one of the guest-rooms. The first customers would be arriving soon, and it’s rather demoralising, if you drop in for a reviving drink, to find yourself sitting next to what looks like a semi-corpse.

  I don’t suppose you, or anyone reading this report of mine, will ever have visited the Oak Tree, and you’re probably picturing something poky and flea-ridden in an unfashionable street of a small provincial town. Well you’re wrong. Our town, Oak Bridges, is small and provincial, certainly. I’d call it a village myself, except that the more civilized natives hereabouts have got it officially recognized as a proper town, complete with its own council, and I try not to upset them. Who they had to bribe for that, and what with, you probably know better than I do. Anyway the mansio is a mile or so out of the town, on the main road at the bottom of the Long Hill, which is a stiff climb up to the rolling wold country to the east. Our place is quite big, a farm as well as a mansio. Our main job is to look after officials on the Empire’s business, but private guests stay with us from time to time, and we keep open house in the bar-room, where passing travellers, including quite a few natives, drop in for a beaker and a bite to eat.

  The bar-room and kitchen and the private dining-room for important guests are in the main block at the front, and there are two wings of rooms sticking out behind, forming three sides of a courtyard. The fourth side is a bathhouse suite, with separate rooms for men and women. Oh yes, we may be in the wilds, but at least we’re clean.

  The left-hand wing is our private one, mine and Albia’s, with windows looking onto a secluded area of garden. The other is for guests. At present there were several spare rooms, so there’d be no problem finding a warm bed for our wounded traveller.

  All right, you’ll probably cut all that description out on the grounds that the Governor doesn’t need a guided tour of the mansio. What I’m trying to make clear is that most of the rooms are connected by corridors and there are several doors to the outside as well. So guests, or anyone, can come and go to the various parts of the house unobserved. Bear that in mind before you start blaming me for not keeping a proper eye on the stranger’s room.

  Taurus and one of the houseboys carefully carried the man into the cheapest guest room, the one with dull brown walls and without a glazed window. After all, I didn’t know who, if anyone, would ever pick up the bill for his stay. As I tucked his blankets round him and Albia opened the shutters, he gave a groan, then a cough, another groan, and opened his eyes. He said, “Burrus! Burrus, are you there?”

  Then his gaze seemed to focus properly. He looked at me for a couple of heartbeats, long enough for me to register that his eyes were a very dark blue, almost purple, and that their expression was more surprised than anxious.

  “Where am I? Where’s Burrus? And who in Hades are you?”

  And good morning to you too, sunshine, I thought, but reflected that he was probably feeling pretty foul.

  “I’m Aurelia. We’re not in Hades though, I’m glad to say.”

  “Aurelia!” he exclaimed, and lifted his head, which was about all the movement he could manage. “Not….I mean….Aurelia who?”

  “Aurelia Marcella. Innkeeper at the Oak Tree Mansio.”

  “But that’s wonderful!” He gazed at me with a sudden dazzling smile, then his eyes closed and his head lolled back. He was unconscious again.

  “Gods!” I said. “That’s weird.”

  Albia giggled. “If this was a Greek love story, I’d say the sight of you has just driven him mad with love.”

  “Be careful,” I warned. “It could end up as a Greek tragedy, where the long-suffering heroine beats her sister within an inch of her life for talking rubbish.”

  One of the maids hurried in just then, to say there was a messenger in the bar-room, and could I please come through.

  “I’m busy,” I said. “Can’t you deal with him? Check his travel pass, get him whatever meal he’s entitled to, make a note in the day book….Holy Diana, we only have about fifty couriers a day through here, you should know the drill by now.”

  “Yes, but he says he’s got a letter for you, Mistress. From the Master, could it be?”

  “Ah, that’s different. I’ll come.”

  Albia said, “We’d better not leave this poor man alone here, Relia. I’ll send one of the slaves to sit with him. Baca can do it, she can bring her sewing
basket. I’ll tell her to fetch one of us if he wakes up.”

  “Good idea.” Baca, aged eight, was a bit young for bar work, but a useful hand with a needle. I headed for the bar-room.

  The messenger was a regular, a big tattooed German trooper who quite often changed horses at the Oak Tree on his way through with dispatches to or from the legionary base at Eburacum. He was carrying his usual bulky satchel, and in his hand was a slim papyrus scroll, tied with a cord and sealed with wax. He handed it to me with a mock salute. “I picked it up at Eburacum,” he told me, “but they said it was from down south somewhere.” He sat down to tuck into a breakfast of beer, bread, and sausage.

  Sure enough, it was from my brother, written in his usual untidy scrawl, and dated the middle of July.

  “Lucius Aurelius Marcellus to Aurelia Marcella, greetings.

  I’m still in the far west at Isca, Sis, spending my hard-earned pay on women and wine. But I hope to be home in time for our birthday, so make sure there’s plenty of good Gaulish red in stock. Meanwhile, one of our cousins is on his way to you. He and his friend have business in Brigantia for Uncle Titus, so I told him to look you up, and I know you’ll make them welcome. Do ask him for the story about Aunt Julia wanting an elephant for her birthday. It’s quite a laugh.

  My love to you and Albia. Be good, or is that too much to hope? Write to me when you can, and send it to Eburacum as usual. They know where to find me.

  Keep well, and take care. There’s trouble brewing in Brigantia.”

  “Good news?” The trooper had been unashamedly watching me while he ate. “Don’t tell me—it’s from the Emperor, asking you to dine at the palace in a golden gown.”

  “No, that came yesterday. This one’s from my brother, and it’s very good news. He expects to be home for our birthday.”

  “You have the same birthday? That’s unusual.”

  “Not really. We’re twins.”

  He put on an air of astonishment. “And there was I thinking you were Lucius’ kid sister! Can I come to the party? When’s the great day?”

  “The Kalends of September. Or should I say, the Kalends of Germanicus? Now that our dear Emperor has started messing about with the names of the months, it’s hard to keep up.”

  He laughed. “Yes, our pay clerks keep grousing about that. Just say the first day of next month, that’ll do me. And if your party’s good enough, none of us will be in a state to care what day it is!” He finished his beer. “Well, duty calls and I must head for the coast. See you next trip.”

  “Right. By the way, take care on the road. A man was attacked near here last night.”

  “Another one?” He stopped in mid-stride. “I heard there was a traveller murdered on the Eburacum road last night, the other side of Oak Bridges somewhere. Nasty business, apparently.”

  “Murdered? What happened?”

  “Poor feller had his head cut off.”

  I felt my breath catch. “How horrible!”

  “I’ll say! He’d been stabbed, and then his head was cut off, and taken away. Like the Britons used to do in the old days, collecting heads as trophies to hang up outside their huts. And some weird note left on the body, telling him to go home or he’d die. He could hardly go home once they’d killed him, could he?” He grinned. “Still, that’s barbarians for you! You can teach them to write Latin, but not even the gods can make them think straight.”

  “Who was he, do you know?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t a clue. A Roman civilian, that’s all I heard. I always thought this was a pretty safe area, round here.”

  “It is. Well, it always has been.”

  He touched a little boar’s head amulet on a cord round his neck. “There’s some unrest further north, so I hear. Maybe it’s spreading. Or maybe it’s just a local gang of outlaws. Who looks after law and order in these parts? Do you come under the military at Eburacum?”

  “No, the Town Council of Oak Bridges. There’s an old aedile who’s supposed to handle it. He’s about a hundred, and needs both hands to lift his dagger.”

  “Take care yourself, then. I don’t want to miss your birthday party just because some poxy native has cut your head off!” He shouldered his satchel and strode out to the stable yard.

  Albia came in, and I told her about the murdered traveller. She shuddered. “Ugh! Sometimes I think we’ll never get these barbarians properly civilised. What’s in the letter?”

  She read it and nodded. “That’s cheerful news, anyway. And another cousin, too. I hope he’s sexier than the dried-up old stick who stayed last winter.”

  Cousin meant one of Lucius’ colleagues on the Governor’s staff. Uncle Titus is in fact Lucius’ name for his boss; my brother works on what are euphemistically called “special duties,” which means doing any sort of secret dirty work that the Governor wants done. Well you know that, of course; and you know about his recent mission in the west, tracking down a native trader who was running illegal arms in from Gaul.

  Whoever this cousin was, perhaps a spy or a political informer, Lucius knew we’d give him any help we could, and not ask questions.

  I touched my belt-purse where the little bone disc was stowed away. “I hope he arrives soon,” I said to Albia. “Besides helping him, we might be glad of some help ourselves, if there’s really trouble coming. Hey, it’s just occurred to me, you don’t suppose we’ve already got him tucked up in bed in the small guest-room?”

  She giggled. “I wondered how long it’d take you to work that one out.”

  “You know who he is? You’ve remembered where you’ve seen him before?”

  “Yes. His name’s Quintus Antonius Delfinus. And Relia, it’s quite a coincidence….”

  But she didn’t get any further because little Baca ran in, still clutching the tunic she was mending.

  “Please Mistress, the man in the bed’s awake and he’s very poorly. He woke up in a fright and tried to get out of bed but it made him giddy, so now he’s just lying there swearing and cursing and asking for someone called Burrus.”

  “We’ll come, Baca. You run along to the kitchen and ask Cook to make up a drink of warm wine and honey and poppy-seed to give him.”

  Well before we reached the sickroom, we could hear Quintus Antonius calling out.

  “Burrus! Burrus, are you there? Burrus, where have you got to? Burrus!”

  The change in him was alarming. He was flushed and feverish, shivering fit to rattle his teeth, and his purple eyes were glazed-looking. As soon as he saw us, he said, “Where’s Burrus? My servant, where is he?” He tossed impatiently on his bed, throwing his arms out wide and tipping the blankets onto the floor.

  I moved to the bedside and bent to pick them up. Be reassuring, Aurelia, that’s the thing. “I’m afraid Burrus isn’t here just now. Why don’t you get some rest till he comes, and you really must try to keep these blankets on.”

  He reached out and grabbed my wrist with a grip so strong it hurt. “What have you done with him?” he almost yelled. “Why isn’t he here? He was with me yesterday.”

  “I wish I could help, really. But you were found on your own.” With my free hand I tried to prize his fingers loose from my wrist; he resisted for a couple of heartbeats, then suddenly went as limp as a lettuce leaf and lay still.

  “I feel awful,” he said mournfully. “I need him to patch me up. I’ve got to make it to the Oak Tree Mansio by dark.”

  “You’ve already made it,” I answered. “You’re at the Oak Tree now.”

  He stared at me. “This is the Oak Tree? Here?”

  “Yes. This is the Oak Tree Mansio, and I’m Aurelia Marcella. I run the place.”

  Not a flicker of recognition this time, but his eyes flashed with excitement. “Then I could make Eburacum today. It’s only fifteen miles or so. But I do need Burrus, he’s used to mending my cuts and bruises. Are you quite sure he isn’t here? Ow!” He tried to sit up, but couldn’t, and lay back,
scowling.

  “There’s no sign of him yet, I’m afraid. You were found on your own.” Gods, am I going to spend all morning repeating myself? No, gently, Aurelia, he’s still recovering from that knock on the head. “I expect he’ll be here soon. For the time being you’ll have to make do with me and Albia.” I bent and tucked in the blankets, and this time he didn’t try to stop me.

  “Jupiter’s balls, my head!” He felt gingerly round it with his hand, exploring the large bump. “My hands hurt too. And I ache all over. I think somebody’s tried to kick my ribs in. Was I in a fight?”

  “It looks like it, but we don’t know for sure. You just turned up outside our door this morning. Can’t you remember what happened?”

  “It’s all mixed up. There was some sort of ambush, I think…several natives, and a man with no head, just a skull….but it’s all confused.” He screwed up his eyes with the effort of recalling it, then started to shake his head, and winced with the pain. “It’s no good. When I try to remember, it hurts my head.”

  “Just take it easy for a while. If you rest a bit you’ll get your strength back.”

  “I can’t wait long. It’s beginning.” He had a worried frown now, and his voice was almost a growl. “What we’ve been afraid of. The attacks, and the Shadow of Death….and now they know I’m here.”

  “Shadow of Death?” I repeated, remembering with a jolt the words beneath the crude skull drawing. “The Shadow of Death attacked you?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It’s just a blur, like a dream.…Merda, I can’t think straight. It feels as if there’s a chariot race going on in my skull.”

  “We’ve got a cure for that, at least,” Albia said. “Some warm wine?”

  “Wonderful! Yes, please.” He smiled. It made him look younger, and much more attractive. “I suppose I’m not going to get anywhere for an hour or two. Maybe I will rest for a while. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, I feel so helpless, not being able to….You see, it’s started. There was this weird man with a mask. If he was the Shadow of Death….”