A Whispering of Spies (10 page)

‘A valuable vase?’ Porteus looked around triumphantly. ‘No doubt taken from the treasure-cart.’

I sighed. ‘I assure you it was not. Ask the messenger who brought the news about the theft. He must have noticed it – it was a most distinctive piece and it was in place when he was there, so clearly it could not have been stolen from the cart. I did not arrive until after he had left – your own witnesses will testify to that – and anyway, there wasn’t any fight. Hearing a crash is no proof of anything.’

Titus Flavius spoke up in my defence – or what he obviously took to be in my defence. ‘The citizen is right. Even if there had been a scuffle in the flat, that does not suggest collusion in the robbery. Quite the contrary. Like everything else that we have heard today, it would point not to this man and his patron having taken part in any raid, but to their having learned that the steward was involved, and were now attempting to blackmail him in consequence. In that case, would you not expect a heated argument?’

The rest of the councillors were on their feet by now, and talking all at once. Florens gained silence by tapping on the bench. ‘One person at a time. I can’t hear all of you. Porteus, you were the first, I think.’

Porteus had turned blotchy and his ears were red. ‘Titus is talking nonsense. This man and his patron were begetters of the crime. You heard the words yourself from Gaius’s messenger. Calvinus was to be responsible for unloading the treasure from the cart, and this man was sent to “get it out of him”. Libertus clearly went to claim their portion of the stolen goods – though evidently he did not succeed in taking any away. Perhaps Calvinus thought to cheat them too, since we know the treasure has been hidden somewhere else.’ He turned to me. ‘But we shall find it, citizen, you can be sure of that. And we will be the ones to instigate the search, not your precious patron, as you clearly hoped. You have already told us – haven’t you, you wretch? – that you actually promised Calvinus that Marcus would take charge of investigating this. It isn’t difficult to see the reason why! So that the theft would be attributed to brigands in the woods – as you yourself were ready to suggest – or some other conclusion favourable to yourselves?’

He might have gone on ranting in this way, but Florens raised his hand. ‘Enough Porteus, we know what you believe. You’ve made it clear you wish to bring this matter to the courts and I’m inclined – reluctantly enough – to think there is sufficient evidence to support a case. Titus, you have a different view of things, I know. And Gaius . . . ?’

Gaius looked as though he wished that Jove would strike him dumb. His bony face was whiter than a newly-fullered sheet. ‘Marcus Septimus has been a friend to me. I wish that I could believe this pavement-maker here . . .’ he began, his voice more tremulous than ever now.

‘But you can’t believe him, and I’m not surprised,’ Porteus interrupted, with a triumphant smirk. ‘You have the evidence of your courier-slave – you were the one who confided it to me!’

That was one mystery solved, at any rate. Now I knew how Gaius had come to be involved in this ‘friendly meeting’ so much against his will. But there was scarcely time for me to frame the thought, for Florens said briskly, ‘That makes us three to one in favour of taking this man into custody.’

‘I agreed to further questioning, that’s all. Not to have him thrown into the jail.’ Gaius was stubborn in his plaintive way.

This forlorn attempt to soften things was briskly waved away. ‘Then I’ll have him committed to the garrison instead. They’ll keep a watch on him till Voluus gets here. That should be within a day or two.’ Florens turned his still unsmiling face to me. ‘Libertus, I must ask you to accompany me. My guards will form an escort.’

And that was that. The old wood-seller and his ancient wife had been right in shunning me. I’d come in here a citizen, of my own free will, but I was leaving as a prisoner.

T
here was no doubt of my status as we left the curia – though I was not in bonds. Florens did not have lictors as he might have done in Rome, but he had the next best thing – a band of burly attendants all bearing clubs and arms. They were not even dressed in household livery but variously attired in different shades of brown, which matched their bronzed faces and their muscled arms, and they smelt overpoweringly of damp wool and sweat.

I was hustled between them as we went back down the steps and through the forum, where the rain had stopped. The crowd that had gathered for the reading of the will parted like butter to allow us through, though some of the urchins who always gather near the market stalls (more in the hope of finding a dropped coin than the expectation of earning anything) began to follow after me with mocking taunts and jeers.

As soon as we had got out on to the street again the company dispersed. The other councillors made polite farewells to Florens and – accompanied by their own attendants – went their separate ways. I thereby lost whatever faint support I had. There was one advantage to their departure though: it saved me the humiliation of a whole procession of purple-striped magistrates escorting me towards the garrison.

Florens on his own was eye-catching enough in his patrician toga, which he had now topped with an elaborate fur-trimmed cloak, dyed (of course) in expensive blue – thus making a striking contrast with Servilis, who walked in perfumed crimson, half a pace behind, while the motley guards propelled me after them. The councillor strode at a smart rate for such a pudgy man, and I was soon reduced to a state of breathlessness. I tried to pause beneath an arch to catch my breath again, but as soon as I attempted to slacken pace at all I found the grip of hairy hands upon my arms and heavy cudgels threatening my legs.

We took a route across the cloth-market. The streets were busy now and full of townspeople, but most of the cobbled pavements were still pooled with wet, so we were not hampered by the displays of merchandise – rugs, cloth and leather goods – which generally spilled out of all the little shops. Pedestrians are usually forced to slow and pick their way through these, so that the crafty traders can accost them as they pass – (‘Special price for you, citizen, highest quality’). However, there was none of that today and we made swift progress through the area.

Only when we reached the guard-house at the southern gate did Florens slacken pace. He strode straight up to the sentry on guard and was peremptory. ‘I am a senior member of the curia. I have business with the commander of the garrison. Have a message sent to tell him I am here. He is expecting me. I’m bringing in this pri . . .’ he looked at me, and broke off in mid-word, ‘I mean “citizen”, of course, to him for questioning.’

The sentry gave him a jaundiced glance. ‘Name, citizen?’ he said. To a councillor, it was almost insolent.

Florens had turned pink, but he gave his name in full and the soldier nodded. ‘Very well. You there, orderly!’ He gestured to an off-duty soldier just inside the wall, who was lounging against the corner of the barrack-room, idly burnishing his helmet with a pumice-stone.

The young man jammed his headpiece on at once and came hurrying across and the sentry solemnly gave him the message to pass on – though the fellow must have heard what Florens said, in any case. The sentry watched him scurry off and then turned back to us.

‘Until there is an answer, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,’ he said, as though the resplendent councillor was a common citizen. ‘You could come inside the compound and sit down over there.’ He gestured to the guard-room just within the gates.

Florens attempted to retain his dignity. ‘That would be convenient. I don’t imagine the commander will keep me waiting long.’ He moved as if to go in through the gate.

The sentry raised a casual arm to block his path. ‘One thing, though! I’m sorry, councillor – they’ll have to stay outside.’ He nodded towards the armed brutes who were guarding me. ‘We don’t let anybody come in here with weapons, I’m afraid.’ He grinned, showing a set of neatly pointed teeth. ‘Except ourselves, of course.’

Florens looked furious at this, but there was little he could say in argument. This barrack area was the property of the Roman troops and the Glevum town council had no jurisdiction here. ‘But what about guarding . . .’ He broke off and waved a pudgy hand at me.

The sentry showed his pointed teeth again. ‘You can keep that attendant in household uniform.’ He jerked his chin towards Servilis as he spoke. ‘There’s nothing against that. He can keep watch on the pri . . . I mean, citizen . . . for you.’ He sniggered a little at his private jest. ‘Not that he is likely to get away in there. The place is full of soldiers at this time of day.’

It was. The inner courtyard was crammed with soldiery. Half of the unit was preparing for some training exercise, apparently a route-march carrying full kit. Such an event was not unusual. You often saw a marching column somewhere on the road – a spectacle designed not just to keep the soldiers fit, but to remind inhabitants of who their masters were. Florens paused, clearly flurried by this activity, and a plump centurion came hurrying across.

He addressed himself to Florens, ignoring me. ‘Excuse me, citizen, we can’t have you all out here. Perhaps if you, patrician, would like to come inside? One of the orderlies will find some wine for you . . . ?’ and he hustled the councillor away to the lower office of the guard-house tower. I glimpsed them through the window-space a moment afterwards, Florens comfortably ensconced upon a bench, while an orderly stood beside him offering a tray.

Servilis and I had no such luxury; we were obliged to huddle up against a wall where a chill wind etched itself into our bones. There was nothing to do but watch the route-march forming up. The century (which, like all others, was composed of eighty men and not the hundred which you might expect) had by this time ranged itself in ranks and now the musicians and standard-bearers took their place in front. There was a moment’s shuffling, a barked command – then all at once the very walls appeared to shake with sound, as trumpets and shell-horns blared out the signal-call and a thousand hobnails rang on the cobbled stones.

The soldiers marched away, the standard swaying high. The court felt oddly silent after they had gone. The grey stones echoed the bleakness of my mood. As if on cue, it began to rain again.

Servilis looked resentfully at me. ‘This is all your doing, pavement-maker . . .’ he began, but he was interrupted by the plump centurion bustling over from the tower.

‘Now then, you two, if you would like to follow me. The garrison commander will see you straightaway. The councillor is with him and they’re ready for you now.’

I glanced towards the guard-room window in surprise, but obviously Florens was no longer there. I had been so busy watching the departure of the troops, and so consumed with my own wretched thoughts, that I had not seen him go.

The centurion used his baton to point the way for me, making it clear he wanted me to walk in front where he and Servilis could keep an eye on me. I already knew the way to the commander’s room – so off we went, through the cool dark of the guard-room, where candles flickered in sconces on the wall, and through towards the steep stone staircase at the rear.

A youngish officer, perhaps an
optio
, was seated at the table in the guard-room as we passed, busily working with an abacus and scratching something on a piece of bark. He looked up as we went past. ‘Ah, there you are, Centurion Emelius. I should be quick if I were you. The commander does not like to be kept waiting, as you know.’ And he turned his attention back to his accounts.

I was more than willing to meet the commandant. I had met him several times before and had found him to be both sensible and intelligent, so there was hope I could persuade him of my innocence. I climbed the staircase as quickly as I could, even without the soldier’s baton flapping at my heels. Servilis was still grumbling as he toiled up after us.

The centurion rapped sharply on the door of the commander’s room and was answered by a shouted instruction to come in.

The commandant was exactly as I’d remembered him: tall, rangy and athletic, with a weather-beaten face, and armour so gleaming you could see the room reflected in the scales, right down to the objects on the table top: oil-lamps, ink-pot, seals and scattered scrolls. Apart from a lamp-stand, the commander’s desk and stool and the shadowy statue of a god set in a wall-niche at the rear, there was no other furniture to see. The commanding officer had ascetic tastes.

The room, which smelt of lamp-oil and pomade, and the beeswax which had obviously been used to shine the desk, seemed more austere today, against the flamboyance of Florens and his slave.

‘Centurion Emelius reporting, Worthiness. In the name of His Imperial Divinity, the Emperor . . .’ The plump centurion was launched on the lengthy list of honorific titles which Commodus had assumed, and which was required by army protocol as the proper preamble to addressing a senior officer.

The commander (for the first time in my acquaintance with him) stood and heard him out, presumably because the councillor was there – Marcus was not the only one to fear Imperial spies. Servilis, meanwhile, had abandoned me and gone to stand behind his owner with a smirk.

The centurion completed the formalities at last. ‘I have brought the prisoner Libertus as you requested, sir,’ he finished breathlessly.

The commander raised an eyebrow laconically at me. ‘Well, pavement-maker. So we meet again. And in connection with more deaths and robberies, I hear? This member of the curia has explained the facts to me and requests that I should keep you here for questioning. He wants me to put your patron under guard as well, and thinks he has sufficient evidence to bring a formal charge against you both in court.’

Florens was looking exceptionally smug. ‘I want this matter settled before Voluus arrives. Libertus may in the end be glad of that himself. I did not meet the lictor personally last year, when I went to Gaul, but I did meet his household – and I warn you, citizen, he is a man who demands the fiercest penalties. He will doubtless hold the town responsible if this is not resolved.’