Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  “I must admit I’m impressed, Albia. We don’t see many passes like that—in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen one with this much clout, let alone two of them! Should we move him into a grander room, do you think?”

  “He’ll probably requisition the whole place when he wakes up, and us with it. Or you, anyway. Come on, let’s see the paper. Maybe that’ll tell us more.”

  I unfolded the square of papyrus, expecting at the very least a citation from Caesar. But there were only a few lines on it, and they made no sense at all.

  L’s list

  PGATT

  SSFCV

  CVBFS

  “What a let-down,” Albia grumbled. “Just a jumble of letters. I presume it’s a code of some sort?” She brightened up. “Pass me a note-tablet. Let’s try and work it out.”

  “It’s none of our business….”

  “It’s a bit late to worry about that now….”

  “…And besides, we’ve got a mansio to run.”

  But she wasn’t giving up. “L’s list. Now who’s L, when he’s at home? It could be Lucius. Our Lucius, do you think? After all, if Cousin Quintus was on his way here….”

  “There are thousands of men called Lucius. Or it might be Lollius? Lepidus? Or how about Lugotorix?”

  “Ah, Lugotorix! Now why didn’t I think of Lugotorix, that world-famous compiler of coded lists! All right, I know we’re never going to puzzle it out. Pity though. Maybe he’ll drop some hints when he wakes up again.”

  “And if he does,” I warned, “we haven’t seen any of this, remember.”

  I put everything back in the money-belt, and locked the lot in the strong-box, safely hidden under its loose floor-board. Then we went back to the bar-room.

  I moved among the customers again, saying a few words here and there. They were nearly all people I knew, a mixture of Roman settlers and native farmers. Most of them had heard about our wounded traveller, and several also knew of the murder on the Eburacum road. But despite the grim topics of gossip, the atmosphere was cheerful. Everyone enjoys a good market, whether they’re buying or selling. Beer and wine sales were going nicely, and the cow’s meat stew was appreciated.

  At a corner table I spotted an unusual group of five young natives, dressed as old-style Brigantian warriors. We get plenty of native customers, but they’re either peasants in serviceable dull homespun, or if they’re a shade richer, they dress like Romans in tunics and travelling cloaks. These were different, so impeccably turned out that they seemed to be making some kind of deliberate statement. They wore their fair hair whitened with lime, and had plenty of blue skin paint on their faces and arms; and they were dressed as fighting men, in leather kilts, greaves, big boots, studded sword-belts and leather jerkins reinforced with bronze across the chest. Their colourful checked cloaks were piled up in a corner with their helmets. They weren’t foolish enough to be carrying weapons, but all the same they were unmistakably trained fighters, exuding an aura of excitement, a strung-up feeling of waiting for something to happen. They were drinking mead, too, which can get men into a warlike mood quicker than wine or beer.

  Their leader sported several bits of gold jewellery, a couple of bracelets on his right arm and a heavy gold collar round his neck. The others had smaller ornaments, mostly silver or bronze. The only jarring note in their appearance was that the leader was clean-shaven, so he must be from a family that had some pretensions to Roman status, with parents who wouldn’t tolerate any barbarian beards. He looked vaguely familiar. In fact, as I walked over to their table I realised they were all familiar, all young men from local families, including Segovax, the son of our native neighbour. And the leader was none other than Vitalis, the son of our chief town councillor, Publius Silvanius Clarus. I hadn’t seen Vitalis around for a while; now I remembered, he had been away somewhere in the west of Brigantia, staying with relatives in the hills. His father was one of the modern type of native, born in Britannia but now proud to be a Roman citizen, and living a thoroughly civilised life. His new villa wouldn’t have looked out of place in Italia, neither would the clothes he wore, and his Latin was more grammar-perfect than mine. I wondered if he knew what company his only son was keeping.

  Vitalis didn’t acknowledge me, so I just addressed the group as a whole. “’Morning, gentlemen. Can I get you something to eat? We’ve a delicious beef hotpot today, with fresh bread.”

  Without thinking, I’d spoken in British, which surprised them. Vitalis said “Yes, please, and another jug of mead,” also in British.

  I signalled one of the slaves to bring it. “Are you going far?” It was the standard question, but it never fails, and I must admit I was curious. We don’t get many old-style warriors at the Oak Tree, even kids like these who were just playing at it. At least I hoped they were just playing.

  “Not far today,” Vitalis answered, “but soon we’ll be going all the way.”

  The tall lad Segovax reached for the mead jug and poured. “All the way! From here to there and back again, till we’ve chased all our enemies over the sea. Right, lads?”

  They all nodded and grinned, and Vitalis said, “Then we’ll vanish like shadows in the night,” and they laughed outright.

  What in Hades was all this about? When in doubt, make a joke. “I’ll have to be sure you don’t run out of mead then. I don’t want to be included among your enemies.”

  “The Chief says that all of you Romans…” the tall lad began, but Vitalis cut in swiftly.

  “…All of you Romans seem to be getting a taste for mead now. It’s a good drink.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed, wondering what the youth had been intending to say. Surely not “All of you Romans will be killed”? No, you’re getting paranoid, Aurelia. Snap out of it.

  I soon forgot the lads, because across the room were a couple of farmers I wanted a word with about some extra grazing for our horses. They were both called Cavarinus, father and son, and they had land on the opposite side of our little river.

  They greeted me cheerfully as I pulled up a stool, and we chatted for a while about the pasture I wanted. I’m trying to expand the horse-breeding side of our business. The native ponies are tough, but small, and there’s always a market for good Roman horses. I have half a dozen excellent mares and two good stallions, and…sorry, you don’t want to know all that.

  After some friendly haggling we made a deal and shook hands on it. They were simple men who’d never be more than peasants, the father stoop-shouldered and worn out before his time with hard outdoor work, but their word was to be trusted.

  “What’s the news in town?” I asked them, refilling their beer-mugs.

  “The price of pigs is down again,” the father answered. “Hardly worth rearing the beasts, it ain’t….” He went on at some length. Did you ever meet a farmer who didn’t moan about prices?

  Eventually his son cut in. “There was one bit of excitement. Not very nice either. In the forum. You know the big marble statue of old daft Claudius?”

  “The late great conqueror of Britannia? What about it?”

  “Well you know Balbus has his pottery shop right opposite that statue. Except he don’t live behind the shop no more, it’s not grand enough for him now he’s on the town council. His foreman lives there, and seemingly last night, just before dawn, he hears a noise in the forum and comes out to see. And there’s a man out there, just by old Claudius, with a funny sort of mask thing on.”

  “If you ask me that was just the drink talking, or the hangover,” his father remarked. “He’s normally legless by bedtime these days. Terrible thing is too much drink.” He swigged his beer.

  “That’s as may be. The man ran off anyway, but lying there, by the base of old Claudius, was a body. A dead body. With no head on him.”

  I felt a shiver down my back. “Another one? Are you sure?”

  “Certain sure. I went and had a look at the place, although they’d shifted the body by then. Th
ey said he was a big German, with a green snake tattoo on one arm. Been badly knocked about, and stabbed to death, and his head cut off. But you know the strangest thing—there weren’t a drop of blood anywhere. I’d have expected the place to be swimming in it.” He sounded quite disappointed.

  “And you haven’t told her the weirdest thing of all,” Cavarinus senior continued. “Pinned onto his cloak was a sort of medal thing, made out of bone, with a message written on it.”

  “Message?” I could hardly get the word out.

  “About all Romans being killed if they don’t go home. So he must have been a citizen, I suppose. He certainly wasn’t from round here.”

  “Something like this?” I took the bone disc from my purse and held it out. They both stared at it, and young Cavarinus said, “Where’d you get that?”

  When I told him, they looked worried. “I wish I knew what it meant,” I said. “I suppose you haven’t any idea who could be behind it?”

  “No,” they both answered, though from their grim expressions, I guessed they knew more than they were saying. But I couldn’t get anything else out of them, and pretty soon they went on their way, leaving me with a nasty taste. I’d always thought of our neighbourhood as a peaceful one, yet this was the third brutal attack I’d heard of today, and the third sinister message. I remembered Quintus Antonius’ disjointed words: “It’s beginning…what we’ve been afraid of….” What was beginning? Whatever it was, I was starting to be afraid, too.

  ***

  Everything was going smoothly indoors, so I went to check round outside. The stables had been mucked out, and the post-horses and mules groomed; the cow and goats had been milked and moved to a fresh field. Looking down to the little river, I could see three of the maids doing the laundry in the big shallow pool, and the bushes near the bank were draped with newly washed tunics and towels. Taurus was whistling as he mended a gate, and Hippon was in the training paddock, with Titch and the other horse-boys and some little native ponies they were breaking to harness. I stopped to watch our newest lad; his movements were lithe and quick, and he managed the ponies and their harness easily.

  I strolled to the orchard next to the large paddock, taking it all in. The apple trees were full of fruit and would crop well this year; even the new pear tree, which was much more temperamental, was promising a good harvest, and we’d already started on the plums. The bees were busy everywhere, making the air calm with their steady buzzing. We should have a good honey harvest as well.

  It was all so orderly and peaceful. I relaxed as I stood looking across the narrow valley, breathing in the good air, and thinking how much I loved our small piece of this raw new province. Yet was the appearance of orderly peace deceptive?

  Travellers attacked? Headless bodies? Young lads playing warriors? And somebody called the Shadow of Death telling us to get out or die? What was going on?

  I didn’t know, but I had no doubt of my reaction. Nobody is going to tell me to get out! Nobody is going to make me leave this place, my home, which I love and work for and want to spend my life in. They can threaten all they like, but I’m staying here where I belong. And if they want a fight, by Mars I’ll give them one!

  I heard a familiar scuffling noise close by in the trees, and my favourite hound came romping up—Lucky, the black one with the tattered left ear, who’s always full of himself. He stood in front of me whining and wagging his tail, then he walked a little way downhill, looked over his shoulder, whined and came back to stand by me again. I knew that signal, he had something he wanted to show me. He and his mate had probably killed a young deer. They were quite good at this, but then needed human help to get the trophies home.

  “What is it, Lucky?” I patted his jet-black coat. “Something in the woods here?”

  His tail wagged harder.

  “I should be getting back inside, you know. But it’s such a beautiful morning….Oh all right, why not? Come on then, show me.”

  He barked joyfully, and ran ahead of me down through the orchard, almost to the little river, and turned right, in among the huge old oak trees that had been here since time began. This was one of my favourite walks, along a path that wound its way more or less parallel with the river, and I strolled along happily, revelling in the quiet shade.

  The dog led me perhaps a couple of hundred paces, till we came round a bend and out into a small clearing, where sunshine flooded in to light up the grass. I stopped dead, horrified. There on the ground was another body.

  A big chestnut horse lay on its side, legs stretched out, throat cut. Flies buzzed and crawled all over its head, and a knife stuck out of its neck. I remember I noticed it looked a good knife, with some jet inlay in its smooth wooden handle.

  It had been a fine horse, glossy-coated and well cared for. It had two white socks, and a white star; it was a first-class riding-horse, but there was no sign of saddle-bags or bridle. The grass and plants all around its body were trampled and there was dried blood everywhere. I got the smell of the blood in my nostrils, and it was all I could do not to be sick.

  This must be Quintus Antonius’ horse right enough. He’d been attacked here, and the attackers had killed the horse, perhaps to quieten it, and thought they’d killed the man. No, that wasn’t right; they hadn’t used their knife on Quintus Antonius. They had hurt him badly and could have killed him, even cut off his head, but they hadn’t. Which meant they must have been interrupted in their gruesome work before they could finish him.

  I set off further along the path, more slowly now, looking carefully. I saw trampled grass here too, snagged twigs, several footprints in the bare patches, and once a definite bloodstain, hard to spot among the brownish remains of last year’s leaves. The path ahead curved away from the river, slightly uphill for a few paces, and would come out on the main road. From there it was only a short distance back down the road to our turning, and the paved track that led to our parking area. Was that the way Quintus Antonius had crawled last night?

  I stopped walking as the questions chased through my mind. Who had attacked him? Did they realise they hadn’t killed him, and if so, would they come back? I knew there’d be more to learn if only I had someone who could read the tracks and signs on the ground. It was time to send for Hawk.

  Chapter V

  Hawk is a native hunter, and he reads tracks the way the rest of us read books. His sharp black eyes miss nothing. He can look at a few scuff marks in the dust, or some bent blades of grass, and tell you who’s been passing by, which direction they were heading, and what they had for breakfast. And probably whether they enjoyed it.

  Hence his nickname: everyone calls him Hawk, either in British or Latin. He understands both, but will only speak his own language. Not that he’s anti-Roman exactly, but he’s his own man, with his own way of doing things. He sees himself as equal to anyone, Roman citizen or not.

  He lives with two wives and a brood of children in a round house in the woods, about a quarter mile from us. The red-haired boy I’d seen talking to Titch was one of his sons, so I sent him home with a message, and Hawk appeared in the middle of the afternoon, just when the flow of customers was slowing down.

  He is a slight, dark man, with long hair and a neat black beard, and he moves as silently and lithely as a cat. Today he was wearing hunting clothes, tunic and breeches made of tough homespun and dyed greenish to give him camouflage in the woods, and he had his bow with him, and his big hunting-hound Bran trotting along at his side. He didn’t enter the bar-room, but sent his son in to fetch me out to the stable yard.

  “I hear you’ve had an unexpected guest,” he said after we’d exchanged greetings. “Quite a mystery, it seems. My son’s full of it.”

  “Yes, unexpected, uninvited, and decidedly odd.” I told him how I’d found the wounded man, and about Lucky leading me to the horse. As usual he spoke in British, and I replied in Latin. It must have sounded strange, but it suited us.

  “I want you to try
and find out what happened to him, Hawk. He’s had such a bang on the head he can’t remember anything clearly. But there’s quite a lot of disturbance around the horse’s body. I’d appreciate any help you can give me to piece the story together.”

  “All right. Let’s take a look.” We walked down through the orchard and along the path towards where the horse lay. I was amused to notice my hound Lucky walking behind us at a respectful distance, while Hawk’s dog trotted beside his master. Lucky, like all the local dogs, knew a pack leader when he saw one.

  “If dogs had kingdoms,” I remarked, “your Bran would be King of Brigantia.”

  “He would.” Hawk smiled, and gently stroked the dog’s head. “But it takes more than brute strength to be a good king. I don’t think dogs have learned that yet.”

  “Plenty of men haven’t learned it either. Look at the way the tribal chiefs used to fight among themselves in the old days here. It was always the strongest who won, whether they were good chiefs or bad.”

  “Whereas Romans, of course, never fight each other, but just sit round a table debating who’s the best ruler, and then appoint him, and all the rest of the candidates acknowledge him with gracious smiles.”

  I laughed. “With the Senate and People of Rome, it’s a case of ‘do as we say, not do as we do.’ We’re allowed to tear our Empire apart in civil wars, but woe betide anybody else who tries to do the same.”

  “You’re unusual for a Roman, Aurelia. You don’t think that everything Roman is perfect.”

  “Hardly! They say love’s blind, but patriotism doesn’t have to be.”

  The banter stopped abruptly when we reached the clearing and he saw the horse’s body. He gave a sort of moan, and went to stand at its head with his hand outstretched, palm down, and chanted a brief prayer to Epona, the horse goddess. Then he turned to me, and his black eyes were blazing.