Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (27 page)

‘Yes.’

‘And when that was announced, did no one protest?’

‘Oh, yes. There was a delegation sent to Sulla and everything. But if you really want to know about that, you’d have to talk to my father.’

‘What is your father’s name?’

‘Titus Megarus. I’m Lucius Megarus.’

‘And my name is Gordianus. Yes, I’d like very much to speak with your father. Tell me, how do you think he would take it if you were to bring a well-met stranger home to dinner?’

The boy was suddenly wary. ‘I think it might all depend.’

‘On what?’

‘From the way you talk, you’ve got some sort of interest in Capito and his land.’

‘I do.’

‘And whose side are you on?’

‘I am for Sextus and against Capito.’

‘Then I believe my father would be happy to see you.’

‘Good. How much farther is your house?’

‘Do you see that plume of smoke on the right, just over those trees? That’s it.’

‘Very close. And where is Capito’s place?’

‘A bit farther on, on the other side of the main road, to your left. We’ll be able to glimpse the roof for a moment when we come around this corner.’

‘Very well. Do this for me: when you get home, tell your father that a man from Rome would like to speak with him tonight. Tell him I’m a friend of Sextus Roscius. I would wait until morning, but I haven’t the time. If he could invite me to his table, I would be most grateful. If I could sleep under your roof I would be doubly so; a stall in the barn would suffice. Would he be insulted if I were to offer money?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then I won’t. This is where we part for a while.’ As we rounded the bend I caught a glimpse through the trees of lowering sunlight on a distant red tile roof.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to drop in briefly on your new neighbour. There’s probably no point in it, but I want at least to have a look at the place, and maybe at the man himself.’ I gave the boy a wave, then coaxed Vespa to a steady trot.

The house in which Sextus Roscius the younger had been born and raised and over which he had ruled in his father’s absence was a grand example of the ideal country villa, an imposing mansion of two storeys with a red clay roof, surrounded by a rust assemblage of sheds and barns. In the dwindling light I heard the ringing of cowbells and the bleating of sheep as the herds were led homeward. Workers were tramping in from the fields through the grape arbours; a long row of scythes seemed to float above a sea of leaves and tendrils. The sharp blades caught the last rays of the setting sun and gave off a cold sparkle the colour of blood.

The main house was in the midst of extensive renovations. A network of catwalks and netting obscured the facade, and symmetrical wings were being built onto each side. The new wings stood hollow and gaping in a state of half-completion. Peering through the skeleton of the left wing, I could see the beginnings of a formal garden behind the house, where a red-faced fighting cock of a man strode impatiently amid the earthworks and trellises, barking commands at a group of slaves. The slaves leaned upon their shovels and fingered their spades, wearing on their dirt-streaked faces the bored, humiliated expression of men who have been yelled at for a very long time.

The master continued to rant with no sign of stopping. He paced back and forth, waving his arms and strangling fistfuls of air. He was a man on the brink of old age, with white hair and a bent back. I could see his face only in glimpses as he turned back and forth. His skin was very weathered, pitted and scarred. Nose, cheeks, and chin all seemed to merge without distinction. Only his eyes were notable, glinting sharply in the fading light like the blades of the faraway scythes.

I dismounted and held Vespa’s rein while I rapped at the door. The tall, thin slave who answered stared meekly at my feet and told me in a cowed whisper that his master was busy outside the house.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I saw him putting on a parade in the garden. But it’s not your master I want.’

‘No? I’m afraid my mistress is also indisposed.’ The slave looked up, but not quite high enough to meet my eyes.

‘Tell me, how long have you been Capito’s slave?’

He frowned, as if debating whether the question was dangerous. ‘Only for a short time.’

‘Only since the estate changed hands – is that what you mean? In other words, you came with the house.’

‘That’s correct. But please, perhaps I should tell my master—’

‘No, tell me this: there were two slaves who served your old master’s father in Rome, named Felix and Chrestus. Do you know the ones I mean?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded doubtfully and seemed to find great fascination in my feet.

‘They were with him in Rome when the old man was killed. Where are they now?’

‘They are . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘They were here for a while, in this house. They served my former master Sextus Roscius while he was still here as a guest of my new master Capito.’

‘And after Sextus Roscius left? Did he take the slaves with him?’

‘Oh, no. They remained here, for a while.’

‘And then?’

‘I believe – of course I don’t really know—’

‘What’s that? Speak up.’

‘Perhaps you should talk to my master Capito.’

‘I don’t think your master would care speak to me, at least not for long. What is your name?’

‘Carus.’ He gave a small start and pricked up his ears, as if he heard something within the house, but the sound came from outside. In the quiet twilight I could distinctly hear Capito’s ranting from the back of the house, joined now by a coarse female voice. It could only be the mistress of the house. They seemed to be shouting at each other in front of the slaves.

‘Tell me, Carus. Was Sextus Roscius a better master than Capito?’

He looked uncomfortable, like a man with a full bladder. He made an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Then perhaps you will help me when I tell you that I am Sextus Roscius’s friend. The best friend he has left in the world. I need to know this very badly: where are Felix and Chrestus?’

His expression became more pained, until I thought he would tell me that they were dead. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, then back at my feet. ‘In Rome,’ he said. ‘My master traded them to his partner in the city, that other one who came into all of Sextus Roscius’s wealth.’

‘You mean Magnus.’

‘No, the other one.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The golden one. Felix and Chrestus are in Rome, in the household of a man called Chrysogonus.’

Chrysogonus
, a Greek word: golden-born. For an instant the name floated shapeless in my mind, then all at once it seemed to explode in my ears like a thunderclap. In my mind the word became a key, pressed into my hand by the unwitting slave, a shiny golden key to unlock the mystery of Sextus Roscius’s murder.

From the garden I could still hear Capito ranting and his wife screaming in response. ‘Say nothing to your master,’ I hissed at the slave. ‘Do you understand? Nothing.’ I turned to the post and mounted Vespa. Thinking we had finally come to our destination, she snorted in rebellion and shook her head; I coaxed her on. I rode with one eye over my shoulder, careful now that I should not be seen by Capito. No one must know I had been here; no one must know where I slept.
Chrysogonus
, I thought, shaking my head at the magnitude of it. I shuddered at the danger. Of course it had always been there, but now I had eyes to see it.

I came to the main road and headed back towards the branch that would lead me to the house of Titus Megarus. Above the trees, in the fading light, I saw the rising plume of smoke with its promise of comfort and rest. I mounted a small rise and abruptly saw two riders approaching from the Flaminian Way. Their mounts proceeded at a slow pace, as weary as Vespa. The men seemed almost to be dozing, as if tired from a long day of riding, then one after the other they looked up and I saw their faces.

They were both big, broad-shouldered men, dressed in light summer tunics that left their muscular arms bare. Both were clean-shaven. The man on the right had shaggy black hair, glowering eyes, and a cruel mouth, and held the rein in his left hand. His friend had coarse, straw-coloured hair and the look of a brute, ugly and slow; he was so big that his horse looked like an overburdened pony, and across one cheek were three slender, parallel red scabs, the unmistakable mark of a cat’s claw.

My heart pounded so fiercely that I thought they must surely hear it. They stared at me coldly as I passed. I managed a nod and a feeble greeting. They said nothing and turned their eyes to the road. I quickened Vespa’s pace and after a moment dared to look over my shoulder. Above the shallow rise I saw them turn onto the road that led to Capito’s house.

XVIII

‘The dark-haired one,’ said my host, ‘yes, that would be Magnus. Yes, he limps on the left, and has for years; no one knows exactly why. He tells different stories. Sometimes says it was done to him by a crazy whore in Rome, sometimes claims it was a jealous husband, or then again, a gladiator on a drunken rampage. Always claims he killed the one who did it to him, and he probably did.’

‘And the other, the big ugly blond?’

‘Mallius Glaucia, I have no doubt. Magnus’s exslave and now his right-hand man. Magnus spends a lot of time in Rome these days, while his cousin Capito is busy remaking the Roscius villa; Glaucia runs back and forth between them like a dog fetching bones.’

The world was dark and full of stars. Moonlight played over the low, rolling hills, turning them to silver. I sat with Titus Megarus on the rooftop of his house, situated so that we had a wide view to the south and west. On the horizon ran a line of high hills that marked the farther edge of the valley; somewhere beyond lay the course of the Tiber. Close by, a few scattered lights and moonlit roofs marked the sleeping town of Ameria, and to the left, obscured by the intervening trees, I could just make out the upper storey, no bigger than my thumbnail, of the house where Capito and Magnus and Mallius Glaucia were all gathered for the night. A single window was lit, sending out a pale ochre light.

Titus Megarus was not a worldly man, but he was an excellent host. He met me himself at his door and immediately saw that Vespa was given a place in his stables. He declined to converse about anything controversial at his dinner table, saying it caused indigestion. Instead, over the course of the meal, each of his five children took turns singing a song. The food was plentiful and fresh; the wine was excellent. Slowly I relaxed and shed my fear until I found myself half-reclining on a divan on the roof garden of his house. In the open peristyle below, the women and children of the house were gathered. One of Titus’s daughters sang while another played the lyre. The sound rose sweet and low on the warm evening air with a vague echo, as if it came from a well. At his father’s invitation the boy Lucius sat near us, listening but not speaking.

I was so weary and saddle sore I could hardly move, and so comfortable I didn’t want to. I lay on the divan with a cup of warm wine in one hand, struggling against sleep, gazing out over the utter peacefulness of the valley and wondering at the murderous secrets hidden there.

‘It was this Mallius Glaucia who came to my house last night,’ I said, ‘along with some other assassin. I’m sure of it – the claw marks leave no doubt. The same man who rode like a demon all night to get the news of Sextus Roscius’s murder to Capito here in Ameria. Surely he was sent on both errands by the same master.’

‘Glaucia does nothing without a command from Magnus; he’s like one of those shadow puppets at carnivals.’

Titus stared up at the stars. I closed my eyes and imagined Bethesda beside me on the divan, warmer than the evening breeze, softer than the pale, translucent clouds that scudded across the waxing moon. There was a burst of feminine laughter from the peristyle below, and I thought how naturally she would fit in with the simple manners of the countryside.

Titus sipped his wine. ‘So Sextus has gone and got himself charged with the old man’s murder. That’s news to me; I suppose I should go to trade gossip at the tavern in Narnia more often. And you’re here to sniff out the truth. Good luck. You’ll need it.’ He shook his head and leaned forwards, scrutinizing the lights from his new neighbour’s villa. ‘Capito and Magnus want him out of the way for good. They won’t rest until the man is dead.’