Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  “He’s not a bad lad,” Felix said. “For all his nonsense, he wants to be a credit to his father.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. And he couldn’t have a better tutor for the ceremony. Talking of rehearsals, did you enjoy your theatre trip to Eburacum?”

  “Oh yes, very much. The play was pretty dreadful, but Dardanio was there, in fact all my friends were, so I caught up with the latest actors’ gossip. Some of the soldier-boys at the garrison are getting very keen on the theatre—rather sweet really. They’re always so grateful when I introduce them to the professional actors. And my dears, I did hear one very juicy piece of scandal….” He reported a wonderfully entertaining bit of gossip, which we enjoyed even though we didn’t know the people involved. It may even have been true. But it’s not relevant to this report.

  Eventually he said, “Now, before I die of curiosity. Have you been to Balbus’ shop yet—and did you see it?”

  He listened excitedly as we told him about the paint, and how Balbus had boasted of doing business and socialising with some of the old Brigantian aristocrats.

  “I told you,” he crowed. “Didn’t I?”

  “You did,” I agreed. “But Balbus says he isn’t the only person who’s used that green paint lately.”

  “Does he? Who else?”

  “Vitalis bought some for Silvanius,” Albia said slowly.

  Felix shrugged. “It’s possible. They’re still putting the finishing touches to the humble abode.”

  “And Balbus told us you’ve bought some too, Felix.” I paused, watching for his reaction.

  He was unperturbed. “Oh dear. Caught red-handed, or should that be green-handed?”

  I felt a leap of excitement. “Felix, you admit it! So you could be the one who painted the horrible message on our wall?”

  He laughed. “I suppose I could. All right, I deserve a slap on the wrist for not mentioning it. Sheer vanity, I confess—I wanted to impress you with my powers of observation when I recognised the colour. I own up, I bought the paint. Come and see what I’ve done with it!”

  We followed him out into his garden, and headed for a small summer-house at the far end, half hidden by climbing roses. It was a lovely little outdoor room, just large enough for a couch and a writing-table, and a carved ebony scroll-rack. And the inside walls were pale green. The table was a clutter of reed pens, papyrus, and ink-pots, but what took the eye was a wooden plinth nearby, holding a marble statue.

  “My pride and joy,” he said, indicating the room. “Especially my Apollo, with the features of dear Nero. He gave it to me himself, and I’ve always treasured it. I like to look at it here when I’m writing my plays.”

  It was a beautiful piece of work, about two feet tall, carved by a master. Nero was handsome physically, whatever the faults in his nature, and he made a good-looking Apollo.

  “So that’s why I needed the paint,” Felix said. “As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the right colour for this little writing-room. Fortunately,” he joked, “I had just enough left over to daub on your wall, Aurelia dear!”

  We went indoors for another beaker of Campanian, and then Felix sighed and said, “Well, I’m afraid I must leave you, and get ready for this afternoon’s entertainment.”

  “Entertainment?” I asked. “Not another play?”

  He gave an elaborate shudder. “Alas no. I’m afraid there will be a dearth of any sort of drama, tragic or comic. I’ve got to attend Publius’ dreary town council meeting. You can imagine how much I’m looking forward to that!”

  As we set off for home, I told our three guards to ride a short distance behind the carriage, so we could talk privately. There was certainly a good deal to discuss.

  “I was hoping,” I began, “that once we’d confirmed whether the paint was in Balbus’ shop, things would become clearer. Instead of which, they’re more muddled than ever. We’ve answered one question, and now we’ve got to answer a whole lot more.”

  “Three main ones, I suppose,” Albia said. “Who painted the threatening message on our wall—Vitalis, Balbus, or Felix? Why? And how?”

  “You’ll be comforted to know, or maybe you won’t—but Quintus thinks that the Shadow of Death must have been at Silvanius’ villa the day of his meeting. So we’re not just looking at Vitalis, Balbus, and Felix. We have to add Vedius and Silvanius as well.”

  I told her about “L’s list,” and predictably she wanted to know all about the code. She’s always fascinated by puzzles.

  “We ought to have a code between ourselves, Relia. There’s one that Julius Caesar used to use….”

  “Gods, you’re starting to sound like Titch! No, let’s not get side-tracked into codes. If you and I need a way to tell each other discreetly that something’s fishy, we can fall back on our old favourite, the customer from Arpinum.” Arpinum was our private code for trouble. Most innkeepers use variants of this—a word that sounds innocent to customers, but warns the staff to be on the alert.

  “Fair enough, but….”

  “No, no buts! Let’s get back to your three questions.”

  “I think I listed them in the wrong order,” she said. “Because to answer the first one, who painted the wall, we need to solve the next two—why and how did they do it?”

  “As to why, that’s easy—to give me a good fright, which it did. Especially as they added the remains of my cloak, to make sure I realised it was personal.” I shivered in spite of the warm sunshine. “As to how, that’s easy too. Given a dark night and a half-decent horse or mule, anyone could ride over from Oak Bridges to the mansio, collecting the cloak on the way, and ride back again, with plenty of time to spare. Gods, you could even walk it, if you thought riding made you too conspicuous.”

  “Not Vedius, surely?” Albia objected. “He’s too old.”

  “He’s still tough. He could do it on horseback, if he had to.”

  “But he’s the only one who didn’t buy any green paint.”

  “Perhaps that’s significant. He begged or stole or borrowed it secretly, to avoid attracting attention, knowing other people were using it openly. And don’t forget he’s in charge of the watch patrols, even if he’s too old to lead one himself. He’s in the perfect position to know when it’s safe for him to travel at night, and when others will be travelling as well….Look, we’ve got to start somewhere. Let’s put Vedius at the bottom of the list of suspects, which is where Lucius put him anyway.”

  She nodded. “It looks as if Balbus is the most likely to have painted the message, in person or using one of his people—perhaps his foreman. I don’t like the thought of a friend doing something like that, but he’s rich, he travels a lot, he socialises with the natives….”

  “…But he seems happy to brag about that,” I put in. “You’d expect him to be more discreet about meetings with Brigantians, if he spent them plotting treason.”

  “No, if he’s being really clever, he’ll make everything look open and above board, won’t he? And from what Ennia told us, the way they were treated in Gaul obviously still rankles. An injustice like that could turn a man into a traitor.”

  “But whatever else Balbus is, he isn’t a fool. And it does seem foolish to use a shade of paint which is there for the world to see on his shelves. He could so easily have chosen another colour.”

  “Well…” She pondered for a little. “Say he wanted to distract suspicion from himself by throwing it on other people who he knew had bought it. Like Vitalis, for instance.”

  “He said Vitalis bought the paint for Silvanius,” I pointed out.

  “Well, perhaps he did. Or perhaps Vitalis was lying. Yes, that could be it! If he’d bought it, intending to paint graffiti with it, he’d hardly admit it was for himself.”

  “No. And to my mind, Vitalis is most likely to have painted the message,” I said, “and left me my torn-up cloak as well. Of all of them, I think he’d make the most effective Shadow of Death, with his warrior training and
his father’s Roman connections. And he’s got the best possible reason to be anti-Roman, if he feels he’s lost his future as a warrior chief. He’s also young and impulsive enough not to care who knows it. But then, what about this morning’s revelation that he’s going to help his dear papa dedicate the Marble Monster?”

  “That could be a bluff, to make everyone think he’s a true Roman at heart,” Albia answered. “Or it could be genuine, I suppose. What if he did actually buy the paint for his father, and handed it over, and then forgot all about it. So he’s completely innocent!”

  “Dear gods, Albia, that opens up a whole new box of beetles! It means Silvanius himself used the paint, with or without Vitalis’ knowledge.”

  “He is at the top of L’s famous list,” Albia answered thoughtfully. “He’s powerful enough, and rich and well-connected; and his family are natives, even if he appears completely Roman now. But he’s done so much to promote Roman ways and ideals in this area. Look at the Marble Monster.”

  “Quintus would say that’s just a bluff.”

  “It’s a far bigger and more expensive bluff than he’d need, though, isn’t it? If he seriously means to drive all Romans out, would he be spending huge amounts of time and money building a temple to Roman gods, just as a bluff? He could get the same result with a lot less trouble. A good statue, or a small shrine, would be enough to impress Oak Bridges.”

  “I agree. Despite what Quintus thinks, I still feel Silvanius is a friend, and if every man in the Empire stood in line to paint a message telling all Romans to leave or they’d be killed, Silvanius Clarus would be the very last in the queue.”

  “Well then—” Albia pushed some loose strands of hair out of her eyes— “what about Felix? He’s clever—probably the cleverest of all of them. With his aristocratic background, he could have all the contacts he needs. He has the paint, but he only admitted it when he had to. He didn’t tell you straight away.”

  “He explained that, and I believed him—he’s as vain as a pen of peacocks. But still, there’s the story he told me about being tired of having to live on Silvanius’ bounty, and I believed that too.”

  “What was it the old Druid said to you? When love feels itself betrayed, it turns to hate, and it is the bitterest hatred of all. I thought that meant Vedius, but….”

  “It could apply to Felix and his grudge against Rome. And he used to be an actor, which would be useful for someone playing the part of a Roman in the daytime, and a rebel after dark.”

  “He made sure you knew that the paint came from Balbus originally,” Albia said, “and told you all about Balbus’ native contacts. Both those things could be Felix trying to cover his own tracks, or just being malicious, because he doesn’t like Balbus much. Or they could be true.”

  Our discussion went round and round like chariots in a circus, with one suspect and then another taking the lead for a while and then getting overtaken. The race was still going on as we got back to the Oak Tree, but when we stepped into the bar, it stopped abruptly. I smelt trouble, stronger than any smell of drink, and Albia did too.

  “Arpinum,” she muttered. “I’ll get some help.” She slipped away, and I walked across the room slowly, looking around.

  The place was full, silent, and tense. All eyes were fixed on one corner of the room, the corner containing Vitalis and his warriors.

  They were at their usual table, with their customary big jug of mead, and one of them was drunk as a senator, and obviously out of control. He was standing up, more or less, swaying erratically, and shouting raucously. As I came towards him, he hurled a beaker of mead against the wall. It smashed loudly in the silence.

  “That’s what we’ll do to the Romans!” he yelled, his speech slurring. “Smash their heads into little pieces and spill their brains all over the floor. Like this!” He flung another mug at the wall.

  I glanced round. None of the other customers was showing any sign of stepping forward to help. Why should they, after all? I saw Carina, white-faced, near the bar. I hoped she’d had the sense to send for some of the men who were fence-building. If not, Albia would bring help soon. But meanwhile I’d have to manage this on my own.

  I walked slowly up to the table, and you could have heard a pin drop. The drunk turned to face me. He was only a boy really, and his unsteady stance and glazed look made an almost comic contrast to his warrior clothes and blue war-paint. But he was spoiling for a fight, and his comrades were watching and waiting for their chance to join in.

  “Now, my friend, I think you need a bit of fresh air to cool you down.” I took a breath, and smiled into his bleary eyes. “I think you’ve had enough mead for now. Why not go outside for a while and come back later? Vitalis—” I turned to their leader— “could you take him outside please?”

  “Don’t you touch me!” the boy shouted. “Don’t anybody touch me! I’m a soldier, I am, a Shadow-man, and nobody pushes me around! If I want to stay here and drink, then I will, and no Roman bitch is going to stop me. Get it?” He grabbed the neck of my tunic with one hand, and picked up the big mead jug with the other. He raised it above his head, and I got ready to dodge.

  A cool voice behind me said, “Put that down, lad, and leave the lady alone.”

  I couldn’t turn, but I knew the voice. “Hello, Quintus. I’m having trouble persuading this—gentleman—to leave.”

  Quintus stepped towards the boy. “Out, scum. Now!”

  “Who are you calling scum, you Roman….” Yelling obscenities, the boy let go of my tunic and hurled the jug at Quintus. He missed, and it smashed harmlessly, though messily, on the floor. There was a quick scuffle, almost a blur, and then Quintus was holding the native fast, with his right arm twisted halfway up his back. The abuse turned into a whimper of pain, and then silence.

  Young Segovax jumped up and launched himself at Quintus. Calmly, without releasing the drunk, Quintus took a pace sideways, then twisted round and gave the lad a vicious kick in the knee. Segovax grunted and backed off but didn’t sit down. Quintus said, “Don’t even think about it, boy,” and after a tense couple of heartbeats, I saw Vitalis wave him down again, and the group of them relaxed a little, and sat there unmoving. I realised I’d been holding my breath, and let it out with a rush. The crisis point was over.

  “Come on, you,” Quintus growled, and marched the drunk to the door. He threw him outside, more or less literally, and came back grinning.

  “Anyone else got anything to say?” He looked at the remaining four warriors. “No? Right. Go and play soldiers somewhere else. Call yourselves warriors? I’ve seen girls of ten better trained than you lot! Jupiter’s balls, a couple of hours with a Roman drill instructor, and you’d all be crawling on your knees and crying for your mothers.”

  Vitalis got up. He ignored Quintus, and spoke to me. “I apologise, Aurelia. They’ve behaved very badly.” He fished in his belt-pouch and held out a gold quinarius. “And I’m sorry for the damage to your property. Will this cover it?”

  “It will.” Several times over, but he wasn’t getting any change. “Thank you, Vitalis. And look, hard drinking and horse-play aren’t the end of the world, but I won’t have people in here talking treason. Understood?”

  “Yes, of course, completely. And Aurelia, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this unfortunate incident to Father.”

  “I imagine you would,” I said. The warriors collected their cloaks and helmets and left. The maids started to clear up the mess, and the customers went back to their own conversations. I thanked Quintus, but he shrugged it off. “They’re just stupid boys. They couldn’t fight their way out of a burst wine-skin!”

  Through the afternoon the men laboured like Hercules, and by dark the stockade was almost complete. In the morning there would just be the two gates to fit: one for the point where our track joined the forecourt, and a smaller version for the rear fence, leading into the big paddock.

  After a cheerful
supper, everyone went to bed early. The night was clear and cloudless, with plenty of stars. We set sentries outside, but we all felt sure it wasn’t the sort of night the Shadow-men would choose for their attack. Just for once, our optimism was justified.

  The next morning was grey and damp, with a thin, steady rain. After breakfast I did my rounds outside muffled in an old hooded cloak, and as I came back into the bar-room, I almost collided with a courier, hurrying out as if the Parthian cavalry were after him. I didn’t recognise him, and when I wished him good morning, he merely grunted. He was either one of the strong silent ones, or just plain rude.

  “He’s in a rush,” I remarked to Carina behind the bar.

  “He came to deliver a letter for Quintus Valerius Longinus.” Carina held up a scroll. “Wouldn’t even stop for breakfast!”

  Quintus was outside, supervising the fitting of the big new front gate. When I could do it discreetly, I detached him for a quiet word. We went into my study and I handed over his letter.

  He scanned it quickly, like a centurion reading battle orders from his general. Then he smiled. “Good. It’s from Lucius. He wants me in Eburacum as fast as I can.”

  “He’s in Eburacum now?” I felt as if a burden was being lifted off my back.

  “Due there today. Can I borrow a few denarii, please, Aurelia, and a good horse?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re going straight away?”

  “Lucius says he’ll be at headquarters by noon. I want to be there when he arrives. I’ll be back here tonight.”

  “What about the fence?”

  “It’s almost done; they can finish it without me. This message has to take priority. Look, I must hurry. I don’t like leaving you just now, but I’ve got to. And I’ll be back by dark.” He tore up Lucius’ scroll into several pieces, and said, “I’ll burn this,” as he dashed out.

  I wished he’d let me read the message. I’d have found it comforting to get a glimpse of my brother’s untidy writing, even in a letter addressed to someone else. I suddenly wanted very much to talk to Lucius, and the next best thing was to write to him. I took a wax tablet and stylus, quicker than ink and papyrus, and wrote: