The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits (51 page)

Having skip-read his letter for errors, Apricus folded the written sheets down to quarter size, covering them with a third, blank one, which he secured with strong twine. The package was addressed to:

M. Valerianus,

Senior Clerks’ Offices,

Imperial Archives,

Rome.

Apricus sealed it with wax and the impress of his smart new signet – a design of a tiny shining sun cut intaglio on a lozenge-shaped yellow gemstone.

The dispatch courier he gave it to was not one he’d seen before, but very affable. He took it with one hand while holding out the other for the usual kick-back regarding private post.

“Oh, yeah,” he remarked cheerfully, glancing down as he slid the letter into his pouch, “Archives – eh? You’ll be well in, likely!”

The Architectus decided on a rapid spring-clean of the fort, due to the impending tour of inspection, so that Apricus, along with several colleagues, spent most of a month on such work. Hardly had they begun to see the end of it, when a Governor’s staff officer arrived in haste to see the Legate.

Every available man was summoned urgently to Principia, where mourning streamers in black and purple had been looped on the Legion’s Standards in its Headquarters shrine, and it was announced with great regret the Governor would not be visiting Eboracum after all. Indeed, His Excellency wouldn’t be going anywhere: C. Valerius Pudens was dead.

In response to a stir among the ranks and several queries, the Legate, looking grim, was unable to give any cause of death – best to reckon on some unforeseen sickness. Yes, he understood messengers were already halfway to Rome; the Emperor would nominate a replacement, surely, the moment he knew. Meanwhile, the Procurator in Londinium would act as Governor and everyone must carry on. He need not stress that any
loose speculation overheard among civilians should be firmly squashed; anyone thought to be “trying one on” out there must be reported for possible interrogation. Keep your ears open and your eyes peeled. The Legate stepped back on his tribunal dais – for the Primus Pilus to dismiss them.

Hard on the heels of the staff officer came a caucus of Frumentarii. They took over an entire barrack. They had the window shutters replaced with narrow iron bars and added security locks to every door – using their own workmen. Then they ruffled feathers among all Principia’s clerks by initiating a trawl through tablets and paperwork right back to the year dot.

In the circumstances, Apricus was not too sorry to find himself redeployed.

Riding out upcountry with Ursus at the head of a bunch of skilled men, they had been told the job was to mend some Hispanic Cohort’s Bath-house.

“Shouldn’t take you long,” the Architectus had said. “Ten days or so, I daresay . . . Get cracking or the poor souls’ll start attracting flies!”

However, II Asturum Equitata were new to Britain and had been assigned to a fort which lay empty through the post-Albinus troubles, and had then been broken into. When VI Victrix’s detachment reached Aesica, high in the craggy terrain of the centre of Hadrian’s wall, it was to find the Spaniards gazing disconsolately at considerable despoliation. The only good thing was: there were plenty of them to get down off horseback and lend a hand.

Once Corstopitum sent materials, and they had finally been able to turn from securing and cleaning up the fort to its actual Bath-house system, the tanks and drains were found blocked with unbelievable rubbish – while a great deal of cooking seemed to have gone on at some point, in the middle of the main bath floor, damaging the waterproof concrete.

Ursus had to send a messenger back to Ebor with the news they’d be engaged on this one for some considerable time.

It was almost mid-summer before they got back.

The Frumentarii were still there. An occasional wan face might be glimpsed peering out through window bars in their requisitioned barrack.

“Who are those?” Apricus asked Ursus.

The centurion shrugged.

“Little Brits, presumably . . . ‘wanted for questioning’ – as that lot always say.”

VI Victrix was informed from Londinium that one L. Alfenius Senecio had been appointed replacement Governor – and had actually arrived.

“Hum,” said Ursus – the fount of all knowledge, “North African. A tough nut. Like the Emperor. Things’re looking up.”

Apricus, drawing pay in Principia, was told: “One for you, Sunshine – came with yesterday’s courier,” and found himself clutching a letter from home.

It appeared his father had forgiven him. Apricus picked open the letter and sprawled on his bunk in contubernia to read it. If the seal came away rather easily – he didn’t notice.

VI Victrix’s domestic refurbishment was back on again, amidst renewed talk of high-powered visitors. Apricus was kept in fort supervising painting jobs – anything from clean white walls in barracks to smartening a suite of guest rooms attached to the Legate’s house. He played safe on this – not trusting himself to be aesthetically original – getting the painters simply to go over existing decor. Once, the Legate looked in, grunted, “Same again, eh?”, grinned and went away.

He had more time off-duty to explore the town and found his way to a taverna called “The Full Amphora” where the wine was decent and there was food as well. The place was popular among the optionate and more junior centurions. Apricus stood his rounds; diced without incurring heavy debt, and eyed a pretty girl who worked there called Candida.

“Aw . . . you’ll never get her, Sunshine,” his friends joshed, “she’s the stepdaughter. The old man keeps a tight rein . . .”

He had written home again – family gossip – remarking only in passing that there had been a strange incident early in the year with a traveller using a Consular seal, that was all.
He couldn’t see anything would come of it. He went on to mention, obliquely, the girl at the “Amphora”, whose late father he had discovered, had been a VI Victrix legionary from Etruria called Candidus. “. . . as everyone knows, serving soldiers cannot marry, so Mother needn’t have the hab-dabs about her. There is quite a movement growing in the army to petition for removal of this regulation, though I don’t suppose for one moment Emperor Septimius Severus sees it that way . . .”

Returning to barracks one rose-and-gold summer evening just as the fortress prepared to close for the night, he had to jump aside until persons Senatorial were swept through the great gates in a blare of curled copper trumpets, jingle and glitter spilling off the escorting cavalry.

A night or two later, turned in on his bunk and thinking of Candida, Apricus became aware of the gritty tramp of marching boots advancing steadily his way along the barrack pavement outside. When they stopped, his door crashed open. A black figure loomed in silhouette against the moon-hung sky, throwing dark shadow in over the threshold and across various protesting mess-mates.

“L. Valerianus Apricus – Optio?” demanded a Frumentarius heading a small section of night guard.

“Yes . . .?”

“Under arrest! Surrender your weapons and follow me!”

They took him to their security block and shoved him in a holding cell, answering none of his questions. Ursus was already inside. At least they weren’t fettered.

“Jupiter Optimus Maximus!” Apricus exploded. “Now what?”

Ursus looked at him wearily.

“Best guess is: it’s to do with the nighthawks we stopped that time.”

“But we have no real idea who any of them were!”

“Nor have they, I reckon. It’s called thrashing about, Sunshine!”

There was nothing to rest on.

They sat side by side on the floor, backs to a wall, unsleeping, growing stiff and cold. Daylight took an age returning.

They were kept two days, without explanation and on minimal rations.

During the third evening, not given any chance to clean themselves up, they got marched through the late dusk into Headquarters.

The tribunal dais in the cross-hall was full of people in white tunics – some displaying the broad Senatorial stripe. The Legate was there – and the Architectus, fiddling worriedly with scrolls and papers on a table. Ursus nudged Apricus. Behind one shoulder of the person who appeared to be the most prestigious visitor stood Frumentarius Blandus.

A staff officer they didn’t know, asking formal permission of the Legate, established their identities, duties, and what he called, snuffily, “your authorship of this report”. He held up what Apricus recognized as his set of tablets from the Spring. Apricus almost nodded acceptance before Ursus elbowed him hard in the ribs. The Architectus, clearing his throat, insisted they be allowed to look over the tablets before agreeing. Once this was done, the staff officer ended haughtily: “His Excellency has decided to cross-examine you in person.”

The prestigious visitor, who was altogether bony, with a skull-like visage, hooded eyes and yellowed skin, regarded them keenly.

“I am Procurator of this Province,” he said, in a voice
reminiscent of the dry rustle of dead leaves. “You may know of me: M. Oclatinius Adventus.”

Apricus thought, dismayed, “Dea Fortuna . . . lend me strength!”

In the background, Blandus smiled mirthlessly.

“Which of you was responsible for this report?” Adventus began.

Ursus and Apricus answered simultaneously: “I am . . . sir.”

“Come now . . .”

Ursus said: “To be exact – the optio wrote it out. He was in charge on the job at the time. But I was present. In view of the strangeness of the incident, and because I was his senior in the field, he asked my advice as to what was best. I recommended a report.”

“Very well. What struck you particularly about the first traveller?”

“In what way?” Apricus queried.

“What did he look like . . . how did he seem?”

“A Briton. To look like, he appeared British,” Apricus replied. “I have described him, sir . . .” He nodded at the tablets returned to the table. “But as soon as he opened his mouth, you could tell he wasn’t – far from it.”

“How so?”

“His Latin, Excellency . . . very patrician. Drawled down the nose, just like y . . . just like they do – senators and such.”

Ursus added: “No Brit could fake that!”

Adventus’ gaze moved from one to the other and back again. He blinked expressionlessly, lizard-like.

“And?” he prompted.

“When we argued, he dragged out this Consular seal. I have seen one once before. It was for this reign.”

“He might have faked
that
!”

“He might,” conceded Ursus, “but he’d have had to go to great lengths to get it done.”

Apricus joined in: “Look, sir – it was night and there was a thick mist. This man came out of nowhere. He insisted he had intelligence for the Governor . . . the Governor-as-was, that is, and that he was being chased because of it. We had nothing else to go on. He said if he reached Ebor, then he’d be all right. And he was followed. It’s all in there . . .”

“Ye-es. But he didn’t come here, did he? No one has any recollection of him.”

“If you say not, sir.”

“You handed in your report on return, but you never thought to find that out?”

Centurion and optio exchanged glances.

“Not our bag, sir, really – was it? We are here to mend forts and roads,” Ursus offered truculently.

The Legate coughed.

Adventus repeated his lizard impression, allowing a pause.

“But he reached Londinium,” his voice creaked like icicles in the wind, “and when he did, Governor Pudens died.”

The enormity of this implication settled like dead weight.