A Whispering of Spies (13 page)

A nod. ‘Perhaps it really was the work of Jupiter. In any case it almost ruined him. More than half the trees were burnt to ashes in the blaze, and his store of cut timber was destroyed as well . . . But Porteus had already spent his profits for the year. He was glad to –’ He broke off as the carriage noticeably slowed, and he leaned out to look. ‘We seem to be stopping. I wonder why?’

Even from my seat it wasn’t difficult to see. We had caught up with the route march from the garrison. This was obviously a nuisance but I resigned myself to wait – the army always has priority. Non-military traffic simply has to yield.

However, there were benefits to having the garrison commander in the coach. He beckoned to the escort-rider next to him and murmured a command. The fellow cantered off, and shortly afterwards we heard a shouted order from far in front of us. There was a synchronized scuffling of scores of sandal-soles, and suddenly the single column of soldiers divided into two, leaving a central passage down the midst of them. The marchers halted – still in unison – and drew up in neat ranks, lining the route on either side to let us through, while the march officer and signifer both tendered a salute.

There was momentary silence (from us, in any case) as the carriage gathered speed and the tooth-loosening jolting recommenced. Emelius had taken off his helmet when we stopped – it had twice earlier hit the ceiling of the coach, endangering the distinctive sideways plume. He was now holding it between his knees, which gave me even less room than before.

I clutched the seat with both hands to hold myself upright and avoid bruising from the armour on either side of me. This news about Porteus’s financial problems was causing me to think. Here was someone who knew the treasure-cart was due and had both some indication of what it might contain, and a lively motive for appropriating it! Was it possible that accusing me was just a bluff, and he had been the one to steal the lictor’s gold himself?

It was no doubt a ludicrous idea, and I dismissed it instantly, but I was hoping the commander would finish his account. However, he was staring at the passing countryside, watching the land-slaves and farmers struggling with the mud, and the pigs and chickens straggling by the road. I could see that shortly we’d be in the wooded area where the cart was found, and then perhaps I’d never hear the rest.

‘You were talking about Porteus,’ I prompted finally. ‘He found himself in trouble with his creditors? Because he had no timber for the market-place?’ I was trying to see how this might be relevant. ‘I suppose that no one local would buy the forest after that. People would no doubt say that it was cursed.’

The commander turned slowly back to me. ‘Exactly so! So when Voluus wrote to him and offered a good price – saying that he wished to build a villa on the site – naturally Porteus struck a bargain instantly.’

‘But did the lictor know about the fire?’ The law puts responsibility on the purchaser to ensure that what he buys is fit for use.

‘He went so far as to joke about it, I believe, saying that it saved the labour of clearing off the ground. Porteus was thrilled. He was boasting about it in the curia. He got his slaves to take away the ash and level the whole area to put the building on. Voluus was to pay him when his goods arrived from Gaul.’ He smiled. ‘You can see why Porteus is anxious to discover where they went.’

It was no use nodding; my head was already being jiggled firmly up and down. I said, ‘I can see his problem when the treasure disappeared – but not why he should think of blaming me!’

‘Perhaps you are the first solution which presents itself? You must admit that circumstances seem to point to you. And he has an even greater problem than you think: he also has a daughter to be wed – plain as a gladiator’s sword and about as feminine – and he has promised a handsome dowry to the prospective groom.’

‘So he doubly needs the money?’ I gripped the seat still tighter as we jolted round a bend.

‘He even tried to earn some,’ the commander said, ‘when he learned about the threat to Voluus. It seems he made a second contract with the man, undertaking that – for another promised fee – he would post some slaves and keep a watch on the apartment night and day while the lictor was away. Voluus did not wholly trust his steward, it appears, and the slaves reported back to Porteus constantly. I don’t have to tell you what they said today – what they told Florens pointed straight to you.’

We had moved into the outskirts of the forest now and even the military road was suffering from the recent storms. Branches had fallen from the older trees and here and there the road-stone had been washed away. ‘But what does Florens have to do with it?’ I said, still trying to brace myself against the lurching of the cart.

The commandant allowed himself a little smile. ‘Who do you suppose is the prospective groom?’

That was a surprise, though I should have thought of it. I knew that Florens wanted that pavement to be laid in honour of his forthcoming marriage to some second wife. What I had not guessed was who the bride would be – I had imagined some wealthy dowager, ‘dutiful and suitable’, as the saying was.

The centurion was obviously equally amazed. I had forgotten that he was listening to all this. ‘Florens? Dear Mercury!’ he gasped. ‘But he’s half as old as Rome! That girl can’t be fifteen!’

The commander raised an eyebrow and said reprovingly, ‘I don’t remember giving you permission to converse! Kindly do not speak until you’re spoken to. But enough of that – it seems that we have arrived.’

He was right. The carriage was grumbling to a halt. One of the mounted escort slid gently from his horse and came across to us.

‘We’ve reached our destination, sir. The fatigue-party is here and removing bodies now – or they were until we ordered them to stop. Do you wish to come and see? It isn’t very pleasant, as you will understand.’

For answer the commander put one hand on the cart and vaulted down, making it look easy, like the athlete that he was. The escort-rider offered me his arm and helped me to the ground, while Emelius came lumbering after us, stuffing his helmet back on to his head, his baton and sword-case clanking against his armour as he ran. Then – looking sheepish – he pulled his dagger out and made a half-pretence of guarding me with it.

I turned away to look around the scene. The outrider was right. The sight which greeted us was not a pleasant one. The ground was littered with the arms and legs and bodies of the dead – strewn across the edges of the road and scattered in the rough grass and bushes of the forest-edge. I even saw one limb, still dangling a shoe, which evidently had been tossed into a tree. Half-dismembered horses added to the scene. It seemed that there were bloodstains everywhere. The damp forest air was heavy with the smell of it.

The army dead-cart was parked over to one side, one or two parts of corpses already loaded on, and its crew of soldiers were standing next to it, obviously having been interrupted in their work. The garrison commander looked them up and down. ‘Who seems to be in charge here?’ he demanded.

‘Me, commander. Sesquipularius Auxiliary Brunus at your service, sir.’ A swarthy senior soldier in a knee-length woollen cloak, sweat-stained leather tunic and a chain-mail jerkin stepped forward and performed a smart salute. I realized that I’d met the man before. I’d nicknamed him ‘Scowler’, though he wasn’t scowling now. He was treating the commander to an obsequious smile. ‘Hard to believe there were only five of them.’ He gestured to the human pieces lying on his cart. ‘Of course some idiot has half-dismembered several horses, too. And have you seen the state of that?’

He pointed. In the midst of this carnage stood another cart – this one half-lurched into a nearby ditch. Slumped across the titled driver’s seat was the limbless torso of a man. It was dressed in just a tunic – or what remained of one – and it told the same tale that the cloak had done: the savage, bloodstained slashes could be seen from here.

‘Merciful Mars!’ I heard the centurion’s muttered oath. He had been standing close beside me – apparently in case I tried to make a run for it. ‘In my life I’ve seen some gruesome scenes – on a battlefield you expect such things. But so many corpses on a public road . . . !’ He made a helpless gesture with his muscle-armoured arm, incidentally lowering the dagger as he spoke.

I turned to the commander, but he was staring at the beasts with a peculiar expression on his face. I realized that the slaughter of the horses had affected him – perhaps more than the killing of the driver and the slaves. It was vaguely shocking, though I recollected he’d been a member of the cavalry himself.

He cleared his throat and said, quite gruffly, ‘Poor brutes – what had they ever done to anyone! But, Libertus, there was something that you wished to say to me?’

‘That seems to be the driver of the coach – or what is left of him. The owner of that belt and cloak you showed to me – and therefore your Roman citizen, I suppose?’

He looked then, and nodded. ‘Hardly an inch of flesh that’s not been slashed. Not much chance of finding ancient scars on that. Or of having him identified, as I had rather hoped, so that someone at his funeral could call his name aloud. All the same we must see that he is treated properly, in accordance with his rank.’ He turned to Scowler. ‘See that the driver’s body is accorded due respect. Find something suitable with which to cover him.’

Scowler looked puzzled. A sesquipularius is a fairly junior rank, merely a one-and-a-half-pay petty officer – as such, he clearly did things by the rules and this unexpected order took him by surprise. ‘But, sir, we don’t have anything to cover bodies with. We never carry anything like that – usually we are only dealing with people who don’t count, paupers who perished on the public road. We just sling them on the pile then tip them out in the communal pit and cover them with lime – along with those who died of plague or common criminals.’

The commander gave him an icy look. ‘I see that you are wearing a military cloak. That would do very well. And make sure that you do not simply “sling this body on the pile” – to use your charming phrase. We think he was a Roman citizen. More than that, in fact – we have reason to believe that he was once an auxiliary soldier like yourself. So bring him to the garrison when you have finished here, before you dispose of any of the rest. The army will see that he has a proper burial.’

‘Whatever you command, sir.’ Scowler looked both astounded and abashed. Then he recalled himself. He seized the swagger stick that was hanging on his belt, thumped his palm with it and turned to his outfit with the scowl I’d seen before. ‘Come on, you lazy good-for-nothing sons of whores!’ he roared. ‘You there, on the end. You heard the commander. Let us have your cloak. Put it round that body over there and leave it till the last. We’ll put that one on separately when we have loaded all the rest. And try to find the arms and legs that go with it. Well, don’t stand there gawping. You have your orders, what are you waiting for? Move! Before I use this baton on your backs!’

T
he men moved off grumbling and Scowler strutted self-importantly across to supervise. The soldier that he had singled out, muttering imprecations when his superior could not see, stripped off his cloak and wrapped the driver’s corpse in it, while the others began collecting dismembered parts, apparently to see if they belonged – rather as I’d fitted tiles into the pavement earlier. They were so dispassionate about the task, it made this an oddly gruesome exercise to watch.

The commander clearly thought so. He turned to me again. ‘Well, citizen, I’m very glad we came, if only to get a first-hand view of these events and ensure that the driver’s body gets a proper burial. But now it seems there’s little more we can do. It is quite clear what happened. I see that I was wrong and you were right. This must have been the work of brigands, after all. Nothing to do with any threats that Voluus received.’

I looked around me at the carnage on the ground. There was something niggling in the corner of my mind – some detail that I could not quite identify – which made me feel this was not exactly what it seemed. Perhaps it was that feeling of disquiet which prompted me to ask, ‘What makes you so positive of that?’

He looked at me, surprised. ‘Well, surely, citizen, it is obvious. This is no casual assault and robbery. It would take a band of well-armed people to overcome that guard – swords and axes by the look of it – and who but rebels carry weaponry like that? No law-abiding citizen could lay their hands on them – far less use them to such horrible effect.’

I wished I were as certain as he was about that. It was true that civilians are forbidden to carry sharpened weapons in a public place – that law had been in force since the first nefas Ides of March. However, even the humblest landowner has hatchets and large knives on his estate, if only for chopping timber and butchering the stock – I even own such implements myself. But obviously I did not volunteer that fact. Instead I said inanely, ‘This was clearly not a law-abiding man. And almost everybody carries blades from time to time – if only knives when they are going to dine.’

Emelius, who had his own dagger half-pointed at my ribs again, laughed scornfully. ‘It would take more than dining-knives to make a scene like this! And it was not one man – it was a band of them. What is more . . .’ He seemed to feel the commander’s icy glare. ‘With your permission, sir!’

His superior nodded. ‘Go on, centurion.’

‘It must have been a well-commanded band and very used to stealth.’ He shot a look at me. ‘I’ve been in a few ambushes and I can tell you that. No one else could have crept up on this lot unobserved, not even in the night, let alone while they were wide awake and travelling along.’

The commander glanced at me. ‘Go on,’ he said again.

Emelius, encouraged, was happy to rush on. (The name means ‘eager’ and it clearly suited him.) ‘These guards would have been watching for attack – that’s what they were here for – and most of them were obviously armed. Some of those bodies still have cudgels hanging from their belts. Not even time to heft them, by the look of it.’