Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  I wanted to scream: Where’s the harm? How long have you got? but I realised it would be better if we kept quiet, so I just said, “Well, good hunting, all of you. We must be getting along.”

  “Safe journey to you,” he answered, and we drove on.

  “Vitalis and his Shadow-men on patrol,” I said. “And Saturninus is actually pleased!”

  Albia shrugged. “I know. Just because he’s Silvanius’ son.…Did you notice he said green paint?”

  ***

  In the pottery shop we found Balbus, his fair hair neat and his face freshly shaved, and wearing his working garb, a brown sleeveless tunic covered by a leather apron. Both were spotless, because it was rarely these days that he personally threw a pot or loaded a kiln. He was apparently in the middle of bawling out his foreman, and I caught something about “…straighten yourself out, or you’ll be looking for another job.” But he broke off and greeted us warmly.

  “Aurelia and Albia! What a pleasant surprise! How are you both?”

  “We’re well, thanks, Balbus,” I said. “We fancied a trip into Oak Bridges, and we’ve got a bill to pay, and an order.”

  “Fine. And you’ll stay for a drop of wine, I hope? Ennia will never forgive me if I let you go without a drink and a gossip.”

  “Thank you, yes. How’s trade?”

  “Pretty good, actually.” He rubbed his hands together. “Can’t complain at all.”

  Gods, it must be spectacularly brilliant. Normally Balbus’ answer when one asked about trade was “Not bad.”

  I paid our bill and Albia showed him our list of requirements: a dozen beakers, a couple of mortars for the kitchen, one large serving dish, three jugs, and four plates of various sizes. Having given our order to his foreman, Balbus proceeded to show us around, pointing out new or unusual items for us to admire.

  Balbus’ shop was no cramped booth with the stock piled in disorganised heaps; it was large and airy, with the pots and glass well displayed. I always enjoyed looking round it. Balbus himself had been a good potter when he started out in Gaul, with an eye for style and beauty. Now he was a good businessman, expert in every aspect of the ceramics and glass trade, and he made handsome profits. Most of his pottery these days was imported, everything from cheerful red Samian ware to some exquisite Greek and Egyptian vases that I thought of as too fragile, not to mention expensive, to use. Of course he had his own potters working behind the shop, producing the more basic everyday tableware and kitchen bowls and mortars; but it was the imported items that gave the shop real distinction. As for the glass, some of the flagons and goblets were so beautiful you just wanted to stand there gazing into the depths of their luminous colours.

  Another customer came in, a very old grand Brigantian lady, and Balbus went to greet her. She was dressed—well, over-dressed—in a mauve-embroidered gown, and as much gold jewellery as she could conveniently cram onto her chubby arms and hands, and round her plump neck. Well, if Balbus was in some sort of illicit contact with the natives, his shop gave him the perfect cover for it, but from the snatches of conversation I managed to overhear, this was just another customer. A dissatisfied one too, with some complaint about flawed crystal goblets.

  But while Balbus fussed around the old dame, and his foreman put together our order, Albia and I had the perfect chance to wander undisturbed, looking at the shelves. Sure enough, we found the pale green paint, not only on shelves, but on the wall behind them too. A small alcove had been coloured green, and was displaying a set of large platters, superb work, each one with a different woodland scene in the centre, and trails of acanthus leaves round the borders. Their shape was stylish, their glazing detailed and delicate, and their price would be too huge to contemplate.

  I surreptitiously fished out the wax tablet with the green flakes of paint on it. Yes, a perfect match. Good for Felix. But had Balbus really been involved in defacing our wall? Or had somebody else got hold of the paint, and used it in a deliberate attempt to throw suspicion on the potter? There was only one way to find out.

  The old lady departed, leaving Balbus looking unhappy.

  “Dissatisfied customer?” I said lightly.

  He grunted.

  “We’ve all had them. In our line of business they complain about the wine and ask for their money back, but usually not till they’ve drunk three-quarters of the jug.”

  “I shouldn’t have let her have so much credit,” he grumbled, more to himself than to us. “Now she thinks she can run up debts like a grand patrician lady. Oh well, her son’s a friend of mine, I know he’ll pay in the end. He lives up on the wolds. I’ll drop round and see him, give him a nudge, if I can drag myself up the Long Hill.”

  “Your friend can’t be short of a gold piece, if he’s buying crystal.”

  Balbus smiled. “The locals are getting a taste for imported pottery and glass, I’m glad to say. And they know they get good value from me.”

  “You’ve got some beautiful stock,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’ve just seen something I’ve been searching for all over the place. You must tell me where it comes from.”

  He looked interested, as well he might. He’d noticed me admiring the expensive platters.

  “That lovely green paint,” I babbled on, pointing at the alcove. “It’s very attractive. I’ve been wanting just that colour for my study. Haven’t I, Albia?”

  “Oh yes,” she improvised. “Ever since I told her about the decorations in Claudia’s house in Lindum. There’s a lot of green paint there. It’s quite the most fashionable colour. They say even the Governor uses it.”

  I thought she was overdoing it, but Balbus laughed. “I’m beginning to realise that! You’re the third person lately who’s asked about it.”

  “Really? Who else is in the fashion?”

  “Felix bought some last month, and Silvanius—well, Vitalis actually, but he said it was for his father, which is the same thing.”

  Ah, not the same at all! I felt a tingle of excitement, and was careful not to catch Albia’s eye.

  “Do tell us where you buy it,” Albia persisted.

  “I don’t buy paint!” he exclaimed. “One of my slaves, Zandros, does all my colour mixing here. He mostly works on glazes for pots, of course, but he does wood-paints as well. I can let you have some of this green, if we’ve any left.”

  “Thank you, that would be marvellous.” Well, what else could I say, having praised it so enthusiastically?

  He turned to his foreman and barked, “See to it, will you?”

  “Excuse me, Master,” the foreman said, pausing in his work of packing our new beakers in a box of straw. “That green paint isn’t one of ours, as it happens. Don’t you remember? Zandros was ill about the time that vine-leaf dinner service was shipped in, and we wanted to get the display sorted, so you sent me to pick up some paint in Eburacum. I got it from Divico’s place.”

  I cursed silently as I contemplated a promising theory falling apart. If the paint was available in Eburacum, half the houses in the district probably had some.

  Balbus gave the man a look that would have soured wine. “Oh yes, I remember now. You didn’t bring enough, did you? We couldn’t do all the alcove with the piddling amount you fetched back.”

  “It would have covered the area you originally wanted,” the foreman objected. “But they sent us more stock than we ordered, so you enlarged the display, and there wasn’t….”

  “Don’t argue with me all the time!” Balbus snapped. “Anyway—” he turned back to us— “we made a mixture of Divico’s paint with some very pale primrose yellow we had in, and came up with that colour on the shelves now. In the end I was quite pleased with it.”

  I smiled at the foreman, and said, “Presumably I could send to Divico and get more of the original green, and Zandros could mix me up some?”

  He scratched his beard doubtfully. “I don’t think Divico has his shop open these days. He’s one of the
Segovax boys, Divico is, and they’ve all taken themselves off into the hills just now. They say it’s a hunting trip, but if you ask me….”

  “Daft young idiots,” Balbus interrupted. “We haven’t got time to gossip all day about the Segovax boys. Get on with the packing.”

  “Segovax,” I repeated. “My neighbour is a Segovax, so that name rings a bell with me. Aren’t they one of the old aristocratic families? Some of them fought for Prince Venutius when he rebelled against us in the old days?”

  “That’s right. I know them quite well actually. Especially the old chief and his wife, they buy a lot of pots from me. There’s still quite a deal of money left in those old Brigantian families. Enough for decent pottery, anyway.” Far from sounding apologetic, he seemed quite proud of it.

  “The old chief?” My mouth went dry. For a heartbeat I was back on the dark wooded road. “When the Chief gets here, you’ll be told….”

  “That’s what everyone calls him. He was a leader in his day, quite a warrior, or that’s how he tells it, with a big war-band. Now of course he’s too crippled to do more than sit in his big roundhouse and dream. Rather sad, really. Who wants to grow old?”

  “I do,” Albia said. “At least I’d prefer it to being murdered.”

  Balbus laughed. “I can’t argue with that! Now why don’t you go through and have a beaker of wine with Ennia? She’s in our sitting-room.”

  Even though they didn’t live behind the shop now, Balbus and Ennia still kept a room and a servant there. Ennia gave us her usual warm welcome, but she was looking, I thought, rather strained today. Everybody liked Ennia; she was round and motherly, and several years older than Balbus. She kept the shop’s accounts, and she always said cheerfully that “Aulus married me for my money,” which was presumably true, but there was affection there too.

  Over wine and pastries we discussed the horrors of the murders. “It’s dreadful,” Ennia exclaimed. “So much violence, so much killing! It frightens me. Aulus and I moved to Britannia to be safe.”

  “Safe?” Albia said. “But I thought you came from Gaul. Surely Gaul’s as safe as houses these days? The Gaulish barbarians could teach ours a thing or two about settling down.”

  “It isn’t always the barbarians who make trouble,” Ennia murmured. “And when we lived in Gaul, it was only a small shop then, but it meant the world to us.”

  She stopped, as if that explained everything.

  I asked, “What happened?”

  “Some soldiers from the local camp came in drunk one day, very drunk, and broke the whole place up. Our pots, the shelves, the kilns, the tools….Smashed everything to smithereens. Aulus tried to stop them, but they were just like animals. That’s how he got the scar on his neck.”

  “How dreadful! They were punished, presumably?”

  “No. Nothing was ever done.”

  “Why ever not?” But there could only be one reason, some kind of fairly serious corruption. “Somebody senior got them off?”

  She nodded. “The camp prefect, their commander, owed us a lot of money. We’d let him have too much on credit—you have to with these important people. His two daughters got married, and they’d ordered enough pottery and glass to hold an imperial banquet. He couldn’t pay our bill, and every time Aulus went to see him about it, he got more and more abusive. Bastard!” she muttered bitterly. “After the shop was smashed, we went to complain to him, and he told us that he’d organised the gang of drunks to do it, and they’d do it again unless we co-operated.”

  “Co-operated? Let him off his debt?”

  “That’s right. We had to agree, he even made us sign a paper cancelling his debt. And yet in public he was so generous, so sympathetic! He got us a grant from military funds, to pay for the damage and rebuild, provided we’d move on somewhere else and wipe his slate clean. And that’s why we came here. So much for Roman justice!”

  “Oh Ennia, how terrible!” With all our own troubles, hers seemed even worse. If you’ve been bullied by powerful men who can put themselves above the law, you must feel as if you’re sinking in a quicksand. What’s the point of law and justice, if it doesn’t stop the stronger people bullying the weaker ones?

  But could an experience like that turn a man into a traitor? “When love feels itself betrayed….” Was that what the old Druid had meant?

  “Well you know, don’t you,” Albia said, “that everyone in Oak Bridges is glad you’re settled here. You’re among friends now. It couldn’t happen again.”

  With an obvious effort Ennia smiled. “Don’t mind me, I’m being silly. And don’t mention to Aulus I’ve told you about this. He prefers to try and forget it. Anyway, he says Clarus’ meeting has come up with some good plans to fight this Campaign of Terror, so things will get back to normal soon.”

  We made reassuring noises, and drank more wine. “You and Aulus,” I said, “you’ve got quite a lot of friends among the old native families, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose we have, yes. I’ve never thought much about it. If you like someone, you become friends, whether they’re citizens or not.”

  “Have they any idea what’s behind all this killing?”

  “It’s hard to say.” She fiddled with a grey curl that had fallen across her face. “Of course they don’t admit it to us, but I think some of them do know who’s stirring up the young warriors, and even sympathise with the idea of getting rid of Roman settlers—though I’m sure they wouldn’t openly take part in any violence themselves. We’ve noticed the natives in general are edgy just now, even our own workshop slaves. Something, or someone, is making them resent us. Our foreman is drinking too much….Let’s hope it’s just a phase. He’s a good worker usually. Have your own natives been behaving oddly at all?”

  “Not really. One of our horse-boys ran off, but that’s not such a rare occurrence, and we’ve got a bright lad to replace him. What do you think, Albia?”

  “Two of the maids are enjoying being miserable because their men have gone away into the hills hunting,” she said thoughtfully. “Otherwise nothing, unless you count Cook’s temperaments.”

  Ennia smiled. “Ah now, if we’re talking about cooks.…” The conversation turned to domestic gossip, and we left soon after.

  Chapter XVIII

  As we were getting into the carriage, I said to Albia, “Why don’t we pay a quick visit to Felix while we’re here?”

  “Good idea. So you noticed that too—Balbus saying he’d bought some of the green paint?”

  “Yes. Odd he didn’t mention it to me, but it’s no wonder he was so quick to recognise the colour. Let’s see what he has to say about it.”

  “And he always keeps a good drop of Campanian white,” Albia added.

  Felix’s house was on one of the main streets, set back a little, with a large garden to the rear It was on a smaller scale than Silvanius’ humble abode, but it had the same feel of well-designed luxury. Not surprising, as the same combination had gone into building it—Felix’s artistic flair, and Clarus’ money.

  The door was answered by the huge manservant, who told us that the master was in, but had company, and he went off to enquire if he would receive us.

  In no time at all Felix himself came bounding across the hall, and gave us each a huge hug and a kiss.

  “The two most beautiful women in Britannia! You’ve quite made my morning. Come in, my dears, and tell me all the gossip. Vitalis is here.”

  “Vitalis?” Now that was a surprise. I hesitated. “If we’re interrupting something, we can call back another time….”

  Fortunately he brushed aside my half-hearted attempt at politeness. “Nonsense, Vitalis won’t mind. He and I are just hatching an interesting little conspiracy.”

  Felix led us to his study, which was at the rear of the house, overlooking a large and lovely garden. The room was a typical bachelor’s retreat; it had two whole walls lined with book-scrolls, a shelf full of exquisite ivory carvings,
two comfortable couches, and several beautiful little tables.

  Vitalis got up as we came in. He was in his warrior clothes, which looked even odder than usual alongside Felix’s flamboyant apple-green tunic with matching accessories. Looking at them together, it struck me how handsome they both were, and in a similar sort of way, both thin and lithe, with regular features and fair hair. See them naked in the bath, they might be brothers. See them with clothes on, and they were as different as figs from fish sauce.

  “Hello, Vitalis,” I said. “I’m sorry if we’re disturbing you. Felix says you’re concocting a conspiracy.”

  Vitalis gave us his radiant smile, and Felix said, “Oh yes, a deep dark secret! You must promise never to admit you’ve seen him here.”

  “Of course we shall promise,” Albia smiled. “Do tell us what it’s all about.”

  There was a pause while two young girls brought in refreshments. They were pretty and properly trained. They served us the good Campanian and some fruit, and I thought, whatever Felix may say about how he dislikes living on Silvanius’ bounty, he does pretty well for himself.

  When they’d gone, Felix said in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Vitalis is going to help his father with the rituals at the temple dedication ceremony. There’s quite a lot to learn, and I’ve been taking him through his lines.”

  “Only it’s a surprise,” Vitalis added, with an embarrassed little laugh. “I shan’t tell Father till the day before. He’s been wanting me to take part, and to start with I said I wouldn’t. But…Well, I don’t like to disappoint him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” I was genuinely touched to find Vitalis had some family feeling after all.

  Albia giggled. “He will—as long as you don’t go dressed like that.”

  Vitalis laughed, and said, “We’ve finished our rehearsal for today, so if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll be on my way. I’m meeting my friends at the Oak Tree, so I’ll see you ladies later.” And with a wave and a smile, he was gone.