Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (112 page)

I inquired after the whereabouts of Mamercus Claudius, using the description his grandfather had given me – a young patrician of nineteen, tall, slender, with a pleasant face and a shock of jet-black hair, a newcomer to the ranks. Among the grizzled Roman veterans and their Spanish allies, such a fellow was likely to stand out, I thought, and sure enough, it took only a little asking (and a pittance of bribes) before Eco and I were pointed to his tent.

The location surprised me, for it was very near the heart of the camp, and thus not far, I presumed, from Sertorius’ own quarters. Despite his youth and inexperience, Mamercus Claudius was probably quite a catch for Sertorius, evidence to his fellow Romans that the renegade general could still attract a youth from one of Rome’s best families, that his cause looked towards the future, not just the past.

This presumption turned out to be more astute than I realized. When I asked the centurion outside the tent to inform Mamercus that he had a visitor, I was told that Mamercus was elsewhere. When I asked where he might be, the centurion suggested that I try the commander’s tent.

So Eco and I made our way to the tent of Quintus Sertorius himself, which was quite conspicuous, thanks to the phalanx of guards around it. There was also a great crowd of petitioners of the usual sort, lined up to seek audience – locals who hoped to sell provisions to the army, or had suffered property damage and wanted restitution, or had other pressing business with the commander and his staff.

Eco tapped the edge of one hand against the flattened palm of the other, to suggest that we had run into a solid wall:
We shall never get inside that tent
, he seemed to say.

‘Ah, but we don’t need to get inside,’ I said to him. ‘We want someone who’s already in there to come out, and that’s a different matter.’

I walked to the head of the long line. Some in the queue glared at us, but I ignored them. I came to the man who was next to be admitted and cleared my throat to get his attention. He turned and gave me a nasty look and said something in his native tongue. When he saw that I didn’t understand, he repeated himself in passable Latin. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I’m next. Get away!’

‘You’re here to see Quintus Sertorius?’ I said.

‘Like everyone else. Wait your turn.’

‘Ah, but I don’t want to see the general himself. I only want someone to give a message to a young fellow who’s probably in there with him. Could you do me the favour?’ I patted my hand against the coin purse inside my tunic, which clinked suggestively. ‘Ask after a young Roman named Mamercus Claudius. Tell him that someone has come a very long way to talk to him.’

‘I suppose . . .’ The man seemed dubious, but then his face abruptly brightened, as if reflecting the glitter of sunlight on the coins I dropped into his hand.

Just then a guard approached, searched the fellow for weapons, and told him to step into the tent.

We did not have long to wait. Soon a lanky young man stepped out of the tent. His armoured leather fittings seemed to have been tailored for a shorter, stockier man; I had noticed that many of Sertorius’ junior officers were outfitted in similarly haphazard fashion. The young man pulled uncomfortably at the armholes of his leather shirt and peered into the crowd, looking rather put out. I caught his eye and beckoned for him to meet me at one side of the tent.

‘Mamercus Claudius?’ I said. ‘I come with a message from—’

‘What do you think you’re doing, you idiot, summoning me from the commander’s tent like that?’ He was angry but kept his voice low.

‘I suppose I could have lined up with the rest for an audience with the general—’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Gordianus, called the Finder. This is my son, Eco. We’ve come all the way from Rome. Your grandfather sent me.’

Mamercus seemed taken aback at first, then smiled ruefully. ‘I see. Poor grandfather!’

‘Poor indeed,’ I said, ‘and poorer still for lack of your company.’

‘Is he well?’

‘In body, yes. But his spirit is eaten away by fear for you. I’ve brought a message from him.’

I produced the little folded tablet that I had faithfully brought all the way from Rome. The two thin plates of wood were bound together with a ribbon and sealed with a daub of red wax, upon which Gaius Claudius had pressed his signet ring. Mamercus broke the seal, pulled the tablets apart, and gazed at the wax surfaces inside, upon which his grandfather had scratched his plea by his own hand, no longer having even a secretary to write his letters for him.

Had Mamercus’ reaction been callous and uncaring, I would not have been surprised. Many an impatient, bitter, dispossessed young man in his situation might have scorned a doting grandparent’s concern, especially if that grandparent had always supported the very establishment against which he was rebelling. But Mamercus’ reaction was quite different. I watched the swift movement of his eyes as they perused the words and saw them glisten with tears. He clamped his jaw tightly to stop his lips from quivering. His evident distress made him look almost as boyish as Eco.

Gaius Claudius had not kept the contents of his letter secret from me. On the contrary, he had insisted that I read it:

My dearest grandson
,

Blood of my blood, what has induced you to take this foolish course? Do you think to please the shade of your father by joining a hopeless struggle against those who destroyed him? If this were the only course open to you – if your own name and future had been ruined along with your father’s and mother’s – then honour might demand such a desperate course. But in Rome you still have my protection, despite your father’s downfall, and you can still make a career for yourself. We are woefully impoverished, to be sure, but together we will find a way out of our misfortune! Surely the best revenge for your father would be for you to restore our family’s fortunes and to make a place for yourself in the state, so that when you are my age you can look back upon a long career and a world you have had a hand in shaping to your liking. Do not throw your life away! Please, I beg you, calm your passions and let reason guide you. Come back to me! The man who bears this message has funds sufficient for your passage home. Mamercus, son of my son, I pray to the gods that I shall see you soon!

After a while, Mamercus pressed the tablets together and retied the ribbon. He averted his eyes in a way that reminded me of his grandfather. ‘Thank you for bringing the letter. Is that all?’

‘
Is
it all?’ I said. ‘I know what’s in the letter. Will you honour his request?’

‘No. Leave me now.’

‘Are you sure, Mamercus? Will you think on it? Shall I come back later?’

‘No!’

My commission from Gaius Claudius was specific: I was to locate Mamercus, to deliver the message, and to help Mamercus, if he chose, to escape unscathed from Sertorius’ service. It was not incumbent on me to persuade him to leave. But I had come a long way, and now I had seen both the old senator’s distress and his grandson’s response to it. If Mamercus had reacted with derision, if he had betrayed no love for his grandfather, that would have been the end of it. But his reaction had been quite the opposite. Even now, from the way he gently held the tablets, almost caressing them, and reached up to wipe his eyes, I could see that he was feeling a great flood of affection for the old man, and consequently, perhaps, considerable confusion over the choice he had made.

I thought it wise to change the subject for a moment. ‘You seem to have done well for yourself, here in Sertorius’ army,’ I said.

‘Better than I expected, in so short a time,’ admitted Mamercus. He tucked the tablets under his arm and smiled crookedly. ‘The commander was very glad to take me in. He gave me a position on his staff at once, despite my lack of experience. “Look,” he said to everyone, “a young Claudius, come all the way from Rome to join us! But don’t worry, son, we’ll be back in Rome before you know it, and it’s the blasted Sullans who’ll be searching for their heads!” ’

‘And do you believe that? Is that why you choose to stay?’

Mamercus bristled. ‘The question is, what’s keeping
you
here, Gordianus? I’ve given you my answer. Now go!’

At that moment, the crowd before the commander’s tent broke into a cheer. I heard the name of Sertorius shouted aloud in acclamation, and saw that the great man himself had emerged from the tent. He was a tall, robust-looking man with a strong jaw and a smile that radiated confidence. Years ago, he had lost an eye in battle. Other men might have been embarrassed by the defect, but Sertorius was said to consider his leather eye-patch to be a badge of honour. The many battle scars scattered over his arms and legs he considered to be his medals.

Some mortals possess a charismatic allure that is almost divine, that anyone can see at a glance, and Quintus Sertorius was such a mortal. This was a man whom other men would trust implicitly and follow without question, to glory or death. The cheers that greeted his appearance, from both his own soldiers and from the local petitioners, were absolutely genuine and spontaneous.

Then the cries died away to a whispered hush. Eco and I looked at one another, puzzled. The cheering was understandable, but what was this? It was the hush of religious awe such as one hears in Rome at certain ancient rites performed in the temples in the Forum, a barely audible welter of whispers and murmurs and muttered prayers.

Then I saw the remarkable creature that had followed Sertorius out of the tent.

It was a young fawn. Her soft pelt was utterly white, without a single spot of colour. She gambolled after Sertorius like a loyal hound, and when he paused, she nuzzled against his thigh and lifted her snout for him to stroke. I had never seen anything like it.

The hush grew louder, and amid the strange dialects I heard snatches of Latin:

‘The white fawn! The white fawn!’

‘They both look happy – that must mean good news!’

‘Diana! Bless us, goddess! Bless Quintus Sertorius!’

Sertorius smiled and laughed and bent down to take the fawn’s head in his hands. He kissed her right on the snout.

This evoked an even louder murmur from the crowd – and from one onlooker, a loud, barking laugh. My dear mute son has a very strange laugh, alas, rather like the braying of a mule. The fawn’s ears shot straight up and she cowered behind Sertorius, tripping awkwardly over her spindly legs. Heads turned towards us, casting suspicious looks. Eco clamped his hands over his mouth. Sertorius peered in our direction, frowning. He saw Mamercus, then appraised me with a curious eye.

‘Mamercus Claudius!’ he called. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Come!’

Sertorius pressed on through the worshipful crowd, with the white fawn and a cordon of guards following behind. Included in the retinue, I was surprised to see, was a girl who could hardly have been older than Eco. She was a beautiful child, with dark eyes and cheeks like white rose petals. Dressed all in white, with her black hair bound up in a scarf, she looked and carried herself like a priestess, keeping her eyes straight ahead and striding between the soldiers with a grace and self-assurance beyond her years.

‘A white fawn!’ I said. ‘And that girl! Who is she, Mamercus?’

But Mamercus only glowered at me and went to join Sertorius. I ran after him and clutched his arm.

‘Mamercus, I shall try to find lodgings in Sucro tonight. If you should change your mind—’

He yanked his arm from my grasp and strode off without looking back.

Lodgings were not hard to find in Sucro. There was only one tavern with accommodation, and the place was deserted. The battle between Pompey and Sertorius had driven travellers far away, and the likelihood of another battle was keeping them away.

The tavern keeper was a strong-looking Celt with a shaggy black beard, named Lacro. He seemed to be in high spirits despite the hardships of war, and was glad to have two paying guests to share wine and conversation in the common room that night. Lacro’s family had lived on the banks of the Sucro for generations. He boasted proudly of the bounty of the river and the beauty of the coast. His favourite recreation was to go trapping and hunting in the marshes near the river’s mouth, where birds flocked in great numbers and crustacean delicacies could be plucked from the mud. Lacro had apparently been spending a lot of time in the marshes lately, if only to stay clear of the fighting.

But he did not complain about the war, except to excoriate Pompey and Metellus. Lacro was very much a partisan of Sertorius, and praised him for unifying the various Celtic and Iberian tribes of Spain. He had no quarrel with Romans, he said, so long as they were like Sertorius; if it took a Roman to give his people leadership, then so be it. When I told him that Eco and I had come that very day from the great commander’s camp, and indeed had caught a glimpse of Sertorius himself, Lacro was quite impressed.

‘And did you see the white fawn?’ he asked.

‘Yes, we did. A strange creature to keep as a pet.’

‘The white fawn is not a pet!’ Lacro was appalled at the idea. ‘The white fawn was sent to Sertorius as a gift, by Diana. The goddess speaks to him through the fawn. The fawn tells Sertorius the future.’