Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (26 page)

‘What?’

‘The old man was proscribed. Named an enemy of the state. Put on the lists.’

‘No. You must be mistaken. You’ve confused the stories with another.’

‘Well, there were a few others from these parts who had regular business and houses in Rome who got put on the lists, and either lost their heads or fled the country. But I wouldn’t be confusing them with Sextus Roscius. It’s common knowledge hereabouts that the man was proscribed.’

But he was a supporter of Sulla,
I started to say, then caught myself.

‘It’s like this,’ the taverner said. ‘A band of soldiers arrived from Rome a few days later and made a public announcement, declaring that Sextus Roscius
pater
was an enemy of the state and as such had been killed in Rome, and his property was to be confiscated by force and put up for auction.’

‘But this was last September. The proscriptions were already over; they’d been over for months.’

‘Do you suppose that was the end of Sulla’s enemies? What was to keep him from tracking down one more?’

I rolled the empty cup between my palms and stared into it. ‘Did you actually hear this announcement yourself?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. They announced it first in Ameria, I’m told, but they did the same thing here, seeing as the towns have families in common. We were shocked, of course, but the wars have left so much bitterness, so much loss, I can’t say that anyone shed a tear for the old man.’

‘But if what you say is true, then the younger Sextus Roscius was disinherited.’

‘I suppose he was. We haven’t seen him around here for quite some time. The latest gossip says that he’s down in Rome, staying with his old man’s patroness. Well, there’s obviously more to the stories than meets the eye.’

‘Obviously. Then who bought up the old man’s estates?’

‘Thirteen farms, that’s what they say he had. Well, old Capito must have been first in line, as he came away with three of the best, including the old family homestead. They say he tossed out young Sextus himself, kicked him right out the door. But it’s his property now, fair and square; he bid on it at the state auction down in Rome.’

‘And the other farms?’

‘All bought up by some rich fellow in Rome; I can’t recall that I ever heard his name. Probably never even set foot in Ameria, just another absentee landlord buying up the countryside. Like your employer, no doubt. Is that your problem, Citizen, jealousy? Well, this is one plum that’s already been picked. If you’re looking for good land in Ameria you’ll have to look farther.’

I looked out of the open door. From where she was tied, Vespa’s tail cast a weirdly elongated shadow that flicked nervously across the dusty floor of the doorway. Shadows were long; the day was rapidly dying, and I had no plan for the night. I pulled some coins from my purse and laid them on the table. My host gathered them up and disappeared through a narrow doorway at the back of the shop, turning sideways to squeeze himself through.

The old man turned his head, pricking up his ears at the rustling noise. ‘Greedy,’ he muttered. ‘Every coin he gets, he runs to put it into his little box. Has to keep a running tally hour by hour, can’t wait until he closes the tavern. Always the fat one, always the greedy pig. It comes from his mother, not from me, you can tell by looking.’

I stepped quietly towards the door, but not quietly enough. The old man shot to his feet and stepped into the doorway. He seemed to stare into my face through the milky egg-white membranes that covered his eyes. ‘You,’ he said, ‘stranger. You’re not here to buy land. You’re here about this murder, aren’t you?’

I tried to make my face a mask, then realized there was no need. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Whose side are you on? Sextus Roscius, or the men who accuse him?’

‘I told you, old man—’

‘It is a mystery, how an old man could be proscribed by the state, and then his own son should be accused of the crime. And isn’t it odd that wretched old Capito should be the one to profit? And odder still that Capito should be the first man in Ameria to get wind of the murder, and the message should be borne in the middle of the night by Glaucia – who could only have been sent by one man, that wicked Magnus. How did Magnus know of the incident so swiftly, and why did he dispatch a messenger, and how did he happen to possess the bloody dagger? It’s all clear to you, isn’t it? Or so you think.

‘My son tells you young Sextus is innocent, but my son is a fool, and you would be a fool to listen to him. He says he hears everything that’s said in this room, but he hears nothing; he’s always much too busy talking. I’m the one who hears. For ten years, since I lost my eyes, I’ve been learning how to hear. Before that, I never heard anything – I thought I heard, but I was deaf, just as you are, just as every man with eyes is deaf. You would never believe the things I hear. I hear every word spoken in this room, and some that are not. I hear the words men whisper to themselves, not even realizing that their lips move or the breath still sighs between their lips.’

I touched his shoulder, thinking to gently push him aside, but he stood his ground like an iron rod.

‘Sextus Roscius, young and old, I’ve known them both for years. And let me tell you, however impossible it may seem, whatever else the evidence may tell you, the son was behind the murder of his father. What a hatred they had for each other! It started when Roscius took his second wife and had a son by her, Gaius, the son he spoiled and petted until the day of the boy’s death. I remember the day he brought the infant into this tavern and forced the pretty gold-haired thing on every man in the room, because what fellow isn’t proud of a new son, and young Sextus meanwhile stood in the doorway, forgotten, ignored, puffed up like a toad with hatred. I still had eyes then. I can’t remember what a flower looks like, but I can still see that young man’s face and the look of pure murder in his eyes.’

I thought I heard my host returning, and looked over my shoulder.

‘Look towards me!’ the old man shrieked. ‘Don’t think I can’t tell when you turn away from me – I can tell from the sound of your breathing. Look at me when I talk to you! And listen to the truth: the son hated the father, and the father hated the son. I felt the hatred grow and fester in this very room, year after year. I heard the words that were never spoken – the words of anger, resentment, revenge. And who could blame either one of them, but most of all the father – to have had such a son, such a failure, such a disappointment. A greedy little pig, that’s what he’s turned out to be. Greedy and fat and disrespectful. Imagine the heartbreak, the bitterness! Is it any wonder my grandson never visits, and won’t speak to his father? They say Jupiter demands that a son should obey his father, and a father his own father, but what kind of order can there be in a world where men go blind or else grow fat as pigs? The world is a ruin, lost, with no redemption. The world is dark. . . .’

I stepped back, appalled. In the next instant the fat taverner jostled me aside, seized the old man by his shoulders and pulled him out of the doorway. I stepped through and glanced back. The old man’s milky eyes were fixed on me. He babbled on. The son averted his face.

I untied Vespa, mounted her, and rode through what remained of the town of Narnia and across the bridge as quickly as I could.

XVII

Vespa seemed as eager as I to leave the village of Narnia behind. She made no complaint as I rode her doggedly down the final leg of the day’s journey. When we came to a fork in the road just north of the village, she seemed reluctant to stop.

A public trough stood at the junction. I made her drink slowly, reining her back after every few swallows. A crude signpost stood behind the trough, a goat’s skull mounted on a stick. Across the bleached brow someone had painted an arrow pointing to the left and the word AMERIA. I turned from the broad Flaminian Way onto the Amerian side road, a narrow path that meandered up to the saddle of a steep ridge.

We began the ascent. Vespa at last began to weary, and the jolts against my backside made me grit my teeth. I leaned forwards, stroking her neck. At least the heat of the day had begun to dissipate, and the ridge cast us into cool shadow.

Near the summit I came to a band of slaves who clustered about an ox cart, helping to push it onto the ridge. The vehicle lurched and swayed and finally attained the level ground. The slaves leaned against one another, some of them smiling with relief, others too weary to show any expression. I rode up beside the driver and waved.

‘Do you make this trip often?’ I asked.

The boy gave a start when he heard me, then smiled. ‘Only when there’s something to take to market at Narnia. The dangerous part is going
down
that hill.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘We lost a slave last year. He was helping to brake the cart on its way down and fell under the wheel. It isn’t nearly as steep on the other side going down into Ameria.’

‘But downhill all the same. That should please my horse.’

‘She’s a beautiful animal.’ He looked at Vespa with a farm boy’s admiration.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you come from Ameria?’

‘Nearby. Just outside the town, at the foot of the hill.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me how to find the home of Sextus Roscius.’

‘Well, yes. Except that Sextus Roscius doesn’t live there any more.’

‘You mean the old man?’

‘Oh, the one who was murdered? If that’s who you’re looking for, you’ll find what’s left of him in the family cemetery. He never lived in Ameria that I knew of, not since I was born.’

‘No, not the old man; the son.’

‘He used to live near my father’s place, if you mean the one with the two daughters.’

‘Yes, he has a daughter about your age; a very pretty girl.’

The lad grinned. ‘Very pretty. And very friendly.’ He arched his eyebrows in an effort to look worldly. The image of Roscia’s naked body flashed through my mind. I saw her pressed against the wall, wilted with satisfaction, with Tiro on his knees before her. Perhaps Tiro had not been the first.

‘Tell me how to find his house,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘I can tell you how to find it, but as I said, it’s not his any more. They drove Sextus Roscius out.’

‘When?’

‘About two months ago.’

‘And why was that?’

‘The law, laid down from Rome. His father had been proscribed. Do you know what that means?’

‘Only too well.’

He drew a finger across his throat. ‘And then they take all your land and all your money. They don’t leave the family a thing. There was some auction held down in Rome. My father said he wouldn’t mind bidding on some of the land, especially the parcels next to ours. But he said it wouldn’t serve any use. The auctions are always rigged. You have to be a friend of a friend of Sulla’s, or else know the right man to bribe.’

Twice now I had been told the proscription story. It made no sense, but if it was true it would surely be a simple matter to prove Sextus Roscius innocent of his father’s death.

‘Tell me then, who lives there now?’

‘Old Man Capito. Bought up the family house and some of the best farmland. My father spat on the ground when he heard he was going to be our new neighbour. All through the winter Capito allowed Sextus and his family to stay on. People thought that was only right, that Capito should take pity on him. Then he kicked them out for good.’

‘And did no one take them in? Surely Sextus Roscius had friends who owed him some obligation.’

‘You’d be surprised how fast a man can lose his friends when there’s trouble from Rome; that’s what my father says. Besides, Roscius was always a loner; I can’t say that he seemed to have many friends. I suppose my father was the closest to a friend he had, us being neighbours and all. After Capito kicked him out, he spent a few nights under our roof. He and his wife and daughters.’ The boy’s voice trailed off, and I saw from his eyes that he was thinking of Roscia. ‘But he didn’t stay in Ameria for long. He headed straight for Rome. They say the old man had a powerful patroness, and Sextus was going to ask her for help.’

We rode on for a moment in silence. The wheels of the ox cart creaked and banged against the rutted road. The slaves trudged alongside. ‘You told me the old man was proscribed,’ I said.