‘If the tribune says the shovels didn’t turn up, they didn’t turn up, and if the Twentieth needs shovels, the Twentieth gets shovels. Anything else you require, sir?’ he asked with a wink. Valerius left with an assurance that when his wagon arrived it would be loaded with a dozen shields and swords and fifty pila to replace those ‘lost’ during the summer, which would go some way to paying his debt to Falco.
Lunaris wasn’t likely to reach Londinium with the wagon until the next day, which gave him a night to kill. He didn’t want to be alone, but equally he didn’t want to be with the type of woman available to a soldier in a city like this. In fact, the only woman he wanted to be with was Maeve. Eventually, he settled for a night in the mansio drinking wine with a few fellow officers either passing through on their way to join a legion, or travelling back to Rome. It amused him to listen to the veterans’ hair-raising stories of the prowess of the Celtic warriors from the western tribes he had faced earlier in the year. He watched one of the younger newcomers grow paler and paler and finally took pity on the man.
‘I don’t believe they were actually seven feet tall,’ he whispered. ‘And they bleed just as easily as the next man. You have nothing to fear if you keep your shield up and your sword sharp.’
‘But do they truly burn their prisoners alive and eat their still beating hearts?’
He smiled. ‘Only in the north, and I believe your unit is in the west.’
‘They burn their prisoners in the west, too.’ The growl came from a rough-hewn centurion sitting by the fire in the corner of the room. ‘At least the druids do. But not for much longer. I was on the staff of the Fourteenth and we’re going to settle them for good. They think they’re safe on their little island but the only way they’ll leave it alive will be if they swim for it. We’ll be waiting to welcome them on the beach, then we’ll see who burns. Come the summer there won’t be a druid left in Britain, and good riddance to them.’
Valerius looked around to see who might be listening. Talk like this was universal among soldiers but hearing the man trumpet details of an impending military campaign made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The servants in the mansio were all British slaves and he doubted they could be trusted. He had heard many stories about the druids’ merciless cruelty but beneath those stories lay an unlikely respect. These men, these priests, were the mortar which had bound the British tribes until Claudius had shattered their unity with a combination of military might and subterfuge. They might have been herded back on to their sacred island, but they were still organized. It wasn’t only Rome that had spies. He shot the centurion a warning look, but the man refused to be silenced.
‘Everyone knows, and why should they not?’ he said defiantly. ‘If the Britons fight, so much the better. The more of them who try to stop us, the more of the vermin we will kill.’
Valerius had a sudden image of a pair of fire-filled eyes and a flashing knife; a man who wanted to kill him more than he loved life itself.
‘What if there are too many of them for you to kill?’
XV
The following day he woke before dawn and joined legionaries of the Londinium garrison in the fortress exercise yard. An hour sweating with the practice sword had become as much part of his life as eating and drinking and he’d reached a stage where he enjoyed the small agonies which accompanied pushing his body to the very limit. He knew Lunaris was unlikely to arrive until late afternoon and while he laboured against his opponent’s shield he decided to spend the morning at the public baths, down by the waterfront close to the inn where he had arranged to meet the duplicarius. There he spent a few pleasant hours listening to desultory and no doubt scurrilous gossip in the baths and wondering at the good fortune that had allowed him the pleasure of the caldarium and the tepidarium twice in as many weeks after so long an abstinence. Later, a slave oiled his body before scraping the skin clean with a sharp-edged strigil, and by the time he emerged he felt more relaxed than he’d been for months.
Still surrounded by a pleasurable euphoria, he reached the tavern, happy to see that it hadn’t been subsumed in one of the many building projects going on around it. It occupied the ground floor of a three storey insula and was identified by an amphora hanging at an angle from two chains above the doorway. A painted poster beside the open door advertised the finest imported wines, but Valerius knew that anyone who thought they’d find them in a place like this was destined to be disappointed. Inside, oil lamps flickered from the walls but seemed to produce more smoke than light. It was busy even at this hour of the day, as he’d guessed it would be. This was a sailor’s town and sailors between voyages only had two interests. Judging by the laughter and the high-pitched female squeals, both were available here. He took one last deep breath of relatively clean air and plunged inside.
Lunaris had made the choice, and Valerius could see why, but it wasn’t a place he would have selected for himself. The room he entered had a low ceiling and measured about thirty paces by fifteen, with five or six seated alcoves where a man might conduct his business in relative privacy. In another establishment the sight of an officer’s uniform would have caused a hush in the conversation, but here his fellow customers ignored his presence. A glimpse of scarlet in the gloom told him he was not the only army man among all these seamen. He pushed towards the bar through the crowd vying for the attentions of a few heavily painted and only partially dressed women.
‘What’ll you have?’
Lunaris had said the inn was owned by a retired legionary veteran who had sold up in Colonia and moved to Londinium. ‘I’m with the Twentieth,’ he said, as he’d been instructed.
‘I don’t give a bugger if you’re with the camel-humpers,’ the barman laughed. ‘What’ll you have?’
Oh well, it looked as if the place was under new ownership. ‘Whatever’s good.’
‘Now you’re talking. We had a shipment in from Sardinia last week. Cost you a couple of sestertii more for a jug, but you won’t regret it.’ He turned to go, but Valerius grabbed his sleeve.
‘If I do, I won’t be the only one.’
The man laughed, unconcerned at the threat. ‘Suit yourself. You’ll get a seat over there.’ He pointed to a darkened corner. ‘I’ll get the slave to bring it over.’
Valerius pushed his way to the corner and sat down with his back to a doorway which, from the smell, led to either the kitchen or the latrine — or possibly both. A young man with a cast in one eye brought him a jug filled to overflowing with dark liquid and placed a chipped cup beside it. The slave reached to pour the wine, but Valerius waved him away. He studied his surroundings, already regretting the impulse that had brought him through the door. The noise and the smoke after his hours at the baths made his head spin slightly. He’d just resolved to leave after a single drink when a slight commotion erupted behind him as two drinkers collided in the doorway with a muttered curse.
The sound of one of the voices rang a warning bell in his head and he half stood, reaching for the knife on his belt. Too late! An arm wrapped itself round his throat and he felt a calloused hand on the back of his head in a classic wrestling hold that he knew could snap his neck as if it were a dry twig. He tore at the arm with both hands, trying to break the iron grip that was already choking him, but the pressure on the back of his skull increased and his vision began to go. I’m dead, he thought. In the same instant, the grip slackened and as he gasped for breath a roar of laughter assaulted his ears. A tall figure in a red tunic stumbled into the seat opposite him and stared across the table with peering, reddened eyes.
‘Got a drink for an old pal, pretty boy? I’m just about out of cash. SLAVE! Slave! Another cup, and bring another jug while you’re at it.’
Crespo.
‘Thought I had you there, eh? Just one twist and — crack — you were a goner.’ The Sicilian chuckled. ‘Killed a man like that once. Looked as if he had his head on backwards. SLAVE! About time.’ The boy arrived with a second cup and another overfl
owing jug and retreated with a scared glance at Crespo as the Roman poured the wine carefully into the two cups.
‘ Ave! ’ He raised his cup in salute. ‘The Twentieth and victory.’ Reluctantly, Valerius picked up his own vessel and repeated the toast. ‘The Twentieth.’
‘And damnation to the Brits, and all their disease-ridden sluts.’
Valerius stared, but the grin on Crespo’s face never wavered.
‘Maybe I should have killed you. Caused nothing but trouble for old Crespo, you did, pretty boy. Had the legate on my back for a month. Might have been kicked out. But Crespo’s too clever for them.’ He tapped his nose. Valerius noted that it hadn’t set well; the axe blade now had a distinct notch in it. ‘Too clever. Got myself a transfer.’ For a second, the eyes glazed over and the centurion rocked back and forward from the waist, his head wobbling gently on his long neck. Crespo had clearly been in the bar for some time, possibly all night judging by the crumpled state of his clothing and the dark shadow on his chin. Valerius recalled the scene in the Silurian hut. It was as well he’d come across Crespo cheerfully drunk and in daylight.
The same thought had evidently occurred to his unwanted companion.
‘Maybe I should kill you,’ he growled, pulling a dagger from inside his tunic and stabbing it into the already scarred table top. The noise attracted the attention of everyone in the bar and Valerius saw the barman reach below his counter where he undoubtedly kept a large cudgel specifically for situations like this. He caught the man’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head. An unspoken question. You sure? Valerius answered by pinning Crespo with the friendliest grin he was capable of.
‘Why would you want to kill me? We had a little misunderstanding, that’s all. Things like that happen all the time in the heat of battle.’ He remembered the Silurian girl’s terrified eyes staring at him over Crespo’s shoulder. In one movement he could take the dagger by the hilt and put the blade through Crespo’s right eye. The centurion would be dead before he could blink. Everybody in the bar had seen Crespo pull the knife. There might be a few awkward questions but he’d worry about that later.
Crespo frowned. He had both hands on the table top and Valerius decided that if the right hand moved towards the knife he would kill him.
‘Misunderstanding? Sure. Heat of battle.’ The hand moved. But only as far as his cup. He took a deep draught and wiped the back of his hand across his lips.
‘Tell me about the transfer,’ Valerius suggested, hoping it was somewhere far away and very dangerous. Germania, or even Armenia would do. A couple of seasons playing tag with the Alamanni was just what Crespo needed.
‘Secret,’ Crespo said, tapping his nose again.
‘Old tent-mates don’t have secrets, Crespo. You know that. We’ve fought in the same shield line and shared a latrine bench. How could we have secrets?’
‘Procurator’s office. On his staff. He’s a miserable little shit, Catus Decianus, but he’s got the right idea. Squeeze them until they bleed.’ He paused and Valerius watched his brain fight the wine in his system. ‘You won’t tell anybody I said that?’
Valerius tried not to show his disappointment. The procurator’s office meant Londinium. Much too close. ‘What, that he’s a miserable little shit?’
‘Not that, the other thing. Squeeze them. It’s a secret.’
‘Squeeze who?’
‘Squeeze the Celts,’ Crespo said, as if the answer was obvious. ‘They’ve been feeding off Rome for years. Subsidies and tax breaks. While me and you were sweating and bleeding, they’ve been rolling in it. Now they want it back.’
‘Who wants it back?’
‘Big people.’ The centurion winked. ‘Powerful people. Subsidies and tax breaks. Only now they’re all loans.’
Big people? Powerful people? Just like Crespo to talk up his new job. He knew as much about subsidies and tax breaks as Valerius did, which was precious little. It sounded as if he’d got out of the Twentieth just in time and he seemed inordinately proud of his appointment. But what was he? Just another blood-sucking debt collector. So a few Britons had got behind with their tax payments? Maybe someone would have their farm taken away from them. Well, Crespo was just the man for that. But what really mattered at the moment was that he was drunk enough to be harmless and Valerius decided it would be better to keep him that way, at least until Lunaris arrived. He poured wine from the jug into the two cups, ensuring Crespo’s was full to the brim.
‘Tell me about Glevum…’
It was dusk when he left the bar, with Crespo staggering in his wake, banging from one side of the doorway to the other and muttering about vengeance. He still had his knife and Valerius considered taking him down towards the river and finding out whether he could swim with a bellyful of wine, but all he really wanted to do was get away from the man. Proximity to Crespo had left him feeling dirty. Every soldier had his dark places, but Crespo’s went to the very centre of Hades itself. The rape of the Silurian girl evidently hadn’t been the first. Not by a long way. And there were hints of even more terrible crimes.
‘Who’s the drunk?’ He looked up to see Lunaris lounging in the doorway of an apartment block opposite the bar.
‘An old friend. Don’t you recognize Centurion Crespo? And aren’t you supposed to salute an officer?’
‘Sir!’ Lunaris rapped his arm against his chest armour with elaborate ceremony.
‘I thought we were going to meet inside?’ Crespo had slumped against the wall of the tavern and Valerius removed the knife from his hand and threw it into an alleyway.
‘Didn’t fancy the company… sir.’
‘Mine or his?’
‘Not sure, sir. What are we going to do with him?’
The legionary’s tone made it more of a suggestion than a question. Maybe the river wasn’t such a bad idea. Valerius looked around. No. Too many witnesses, and if Crespo was truly on the procurator’s staff there’d be an investigation. He had a better idea. ‘Let’s give him a nice soft bed for the night,’ he suggested, pointing to a large midden that steamed noxiously beside a stable a few yards down the street.
They picked Crespo up between them and carried him to the dungheap.
‘Ready?’ Lunaris asked.
‘On three. One, two, three.’
Crespo’s body landed face down among the horse and mule shit, and, if Valerius was any judge, the contents of the owner’s latrine pit.
‘That’ll do nicely. He’s among friends,’ Lunaris laughed.
‘Wait.’ Valerius picked up a stick leaning against the stable door and prodded the manure around Crespo’s face until he had space to breathe. ‘No point in killing him.’
Lunaris snorted. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
XVI Valerius, dearest son and a father’s pride, I greet you and salute you. Livius sends word that you are in good health and do your duty. Do not trouble yourself on behalf of your father; his joints may creak these days but he thrives like the olive trees on the southern slope beyond the river, a little more gnarled with each passing year, but still productive in his way. Granta and Cronus send their greetings, too.
The letter had followed him from Glevum and must have been written two months earlier. Valerius smiled as he read the opening again. A typical father’s missive to his son; replete with familial pleasantries but containing a rebuke in every line. The fact that Livius had sent word of his condition was meant to remind him that he had not. The creaking joints were a hint that his father was feeling abandoned. Granta and Cronus were the two freedmen who managed the estate. He struggled to find the hidden message in their inclusion, but he had no doubt it was there somewhere. He read on. I still await the reply from the Emperor in connection with my request for an appointment. It has been several months, I know, but I retain some hope of advancement and a resurgence in the fortunes of our family. The Emperor is a fine young man, with many responsibilities, but I have taken steps to ensure my application is brought before him.
I had a most pleasant encounter with your old tutor, Seneca, just the other day, and he brought me up to date with events in Rome and in the Senate. Valerius groaned. As a boy he had studied under the great man and the philosopher now owned an estate in the next valley to his father. Seneca, in his early sixties, could be a wonderful dinner companion, entertaining and erudite, fashioning arguments that could turn a man’s head inside out and have him debating against himself. He was also reckless and dangerous to know. One clever remark too many had lost him Caligula’s patronage and might easily have cost him his life. Yet just when his star was in the ascendancy again a flagrant affair with the now-dead Emperor’s sister, Julia Livilla, had seen him sent into exile by her uncle, Caligula’s successor, Claudius. Claudius’s wife Agrippina had rescued him from obscurity in Corsica to tutor her son, and now that same son ruled the Empire and Seneca sat at his side. Seneca advises that you consider leaving Britain at once — these things can be arranged, he says — and resume your legal career. It appears that your island province has not met the Emperor’s expectations. He sees only huge expenditure without tangible result and only his respect for his late stepfather’s achievements there maintains his interest. My friend fears that interest may not be indefinite. He hinted that if I had any investments in Britain it might be wise to withdraw them and direct them elsewhere. But my only investment is you, my son [Valerius imagined he could see a stain on the letter where a stray tear had dropped], and the thought of that investment ending its days on the point of some savage’s spear undoubtedly shortens a tenure already sadly decreased by life’s manifest burdens…
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