A Pattern of Blood (3 page)

‘Libertus, my old friend! Welcome, welcome.’ Marcus came bustling to greet me, his toga even more pristine and elegant than I had feared. Its dazzling whiteness was set off to perfection by the glint of the heavy gold brooch on his slim shoulder and the equally heavy seal ring on his outstretched hand. They could parade him around the forum, I thought, as an advertisement for the fuller’s – except for that imperial border. In fact, with his short-cropped fair hair, hooded eyes, patrician nose and fine features, he looked every inch an Aurelian. He was still a young man, but he had an effortless air of command. Perhaps the rumours about his ancestry were true.

All this effort at elegance was making me increasingly uneasy. What did he want with me? It was in any case an awkward moment. Normally, I would have made a formal obeisance, on my knees, but I was supposed to be his dinner guest. I compromised by bowing deeply over his hand and bending my knees slightly. ‘Excellence! I am honoured by your gracious invitation.’

It seemed to do the trick. Marcus smiled. ‘Nonsense! I wished to reward you, old friend, for your help.’ He made the slightest of gestures and two slaves came running, with a folding chair for him and a stool for me. Dates, figs and honeyed fruit, I noticed, were already set out for us on a magnificent inlaid table nearby, together with two cups and a jug of something which I took to be cooled wine. He waved a hand at them. ‘A little something to while away the time before dinner? A mere trifle.’

My heart sank further. I am not in a general way a lover of dried dates and figs – like many Roman appetisers they are too sweet for my taste – but since every item on that table, from the food and wine to the fine goblets with ‘Don’t be thirsty’ worked into the glass, had been especially imported from somewhere else, one didn’t have to be a tax collector to work out that this entertainment of Marcus’s was a very expensive ‘trifle’ indeed.

Junio – who had relieved me of my mantle and was now being led away to wait for me in the slave quarters, as the custom was – caught my eye and gave me an expressive look. Whatever my host wanted, his face said, it wasn’t a bread-and-apples matter.

I couldn’t ask Marcus what it was, of course. That would have been a breach of etiquette. Instead, I was obliged to perch on the stool and eat with a determined appearance of enjoyment and gratitude, while Marcus gossiped about his twin passions, pleasure and politics, and boasted about the exploits of his contacts in the army.

At last, however, he worked around to it, although by such a circuitous route that even then I didn’t see it coming.

‘My cousin, now,’ he said, ‘been made a
doublarius
already, and on the governor’s staff. Twice the pay – and at his age, too. He’ll go far. He was the one who sent me the wine. You like it?’

I made an inspired guess. ‘Rhenish?’ Wine is not my preferred drink, and my judgement is limited to an estimation of how much it looks like weak blood and how much it tastes like strong vinegar. However, I knew that Rhenish wine was much esteemed this year, and, since Marcus clearly expected me to say something, it seemed like a sensible guess. Even if I was wrong, I reasoned, I had paid him a compliment.

Marcus gave a nod of approval. ‘Not quite, not quite. But a good guess. Even better than Rhenish, in fact. It’s Falernian. From the vineyards south of Rome. Best wine in the world. That young scoundrel knows a good vintage when he samples it. They looted a cellar, apparently belonging to that rebellious legion in the north-west. You heard about that?’ He signalled to the slave, and I found myself contemplating another glassful of whatever it was. All I knew, I thought glumly, was that it wasn’t ale.

I shook my head. I had heard vague rumours, of course, but there are always rumours in Glevum, often incredible and usually contradictory. This legion or that has won a skirmish, or lost it. The governor is dead, is married, is coming to Glevum, has been visited by Jupiter himself in the shape of a butterfly. Even the truth tends to be so modified when passed on by word of mouth from traveller to traveller that I had come to pay little attention to rumour. If there was any serious trouble one would learn of it soon enough.

But obviously there had been truth in this. Marcus was still smiling, toying with his goblet, but there was no smile in his voice. ‘Oh, yes, quite a serious affair. Set on the governor and murdered his bodyguard. Left him for dead, I hear.’

I hadn’t heard that story. I put down my glass and gulped – not at the wine. ‘Left the governor for dead? You mean Pertinax? Your friend? The Governor of Britain?’ My mind was racing, trying to organise my thoughts as well as I could through the filter of Falernian wine. My patron derived his authority from the governor directly. If Pertinax fell, then Marcus fell with him, and any political assassin might strike at Marcus too. ‘That governor?’

Marcus regarded me with that affectionate intensity people reserve for the seriously stupid. ‘That governor.’

‘Oh.’ There seemed to be nothing else to say. Suddenly everything, the invitation, the wine, the exotic fruits – the whole expensive and uncalled-for occasion – seemed depressingly ominous. Marcus had used me before now to get to the bottom of various unpleasant incidents, such as the death of an ex-centurion or the theft of a quantity of gold, which seemed to him to threaten the dignity of Rome. He valued my discretion, he said. Now, I realised, he was about to ask me to be discreet again, but on a grander scale. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it a bit. Meddling in that kind of murky politics is a certain short cut to an early grave – often by interestingly agonising routes.

I was considering the feasibility of pleading some unavoidable appointment – my own funeral, perhaps – when Marcus went on. ‘Of course, Pertinax has already ordered the punishment of the guilty legion. It will be severe, naturally. Part of the reason he was sent here was to instil discipline into the ranks.’

I breathed out again. If Pertinax had identified his attackers, perhaps my discretion would not be needed after all.

I had exhaled too soon. Marcus bit delicately into a particularly bilious-looking fig. ‘But something else has arisen from this. Something nearer home.’

I almost choked on my non-Rhenish wine.

Marcus regarded me benevolently. ‘Do I remember hearing that you visited Corinium about the last full moon? Something to do with trying to trace that wife of yours?’

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry.

‘You didn’t, by any chance, hear anything about a stabbing? An acquaintance of mine, a fellow named Quintus Ulpius Decianus. He is one of the councillors there, a decurion. I have received word to say that he was attacked walking home from watching a chariot race. His slave was killed and he was wounded.’

I gulped. I am obliged by custom to attend upon my patron regularly. I had informed him of my visit to Corinium, but – apart from telling Junio – I had kept carefully discreet about the robbery. Now, it seemed, I was about to pay for that discretion.

‘Street robbers, wasn’t it?’ I enquired.

Marcus shook his head. ‘That seemed likely, at first. But there is something else. A friend had attended him to the races, and saw the end of the attack. Only the end, because he stopped to speak to a soothsayer. It was dark, of course, and he didn’t see the attackers properly, but as he came around the corner he saw someone standing over Quintus with a dagger. He shouted and gave chase, but he is not as young as he was, and by that time it was too late. Quintus was lying wounded on the chariot grooves, and his lantern-bearer was dead. One might have suspected the friend of staging the robbery, except that he saved Quintus’s life.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I happened to see some of it myself.’ Marcus looked about to expostulate, so I added quickly, ‘It was just as well the friend was there. He is a doctor, I believe? Without his care the man might have died of his wounds. He seemed to be carrying an army medical pack.’

Marcus nodded. ‘He always does, apparently. He is a retired army surgeon. Quintus is recovering well, though he can remember little of the attack. But the surgeon – Sollers, his name is – seems to think that their real aim was not robbery. Their first action was to attack Quintus, he says. It wasn’t until Sollers shouted that the thief cut the purse free, and ran. He has warned Quintus to be on his guard.’

I nodded. ‘I was impressed with him. He deserves his name, obviously.’ ‘Sollers’ is a cognomen meaning ‘clever’ or ‘capable’. A man doesn’t earn a name like that for nothing. ‘What has this to do with Pertinax? You think this was somehow political? Or aimed at Quintus personally?’ It was possible. There were, after all, other rich men among the racegoers, but only Quintus had been attacked. Perhaps it had been pre-arranged. I was liking this less and less. ‘Did Quintus Ulpius have particular enemies?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘Some individual that he punished or did not recommend for preferment?’

That would not have surprised me either. Decurions, especially in wealthy cities like Corinium, are not the most popular of citizens. True, they are voted into office, but since decurions are responsible for allocating contracts for public works and also for collecting taxes, they are often viewed with jaundiced eyes, especially by those who did not secure the contracts or who had to pay the tax. And, of course, by those who have not managed to become decurions.

‘Well,’ Marcus said, ‘there is some problem over his wife. She was a wealthy woman, apparently, and she left her former husband to marry Quintus. You know what these heiresses are like.’

I did indeed. A woman who leaves her husband, or is divorced from a free marriage, is entitled to take her dowry with her. The Empire is full of attractive
vaduae
who ally themselves to one influential man after another. ‘Then that is the likely explanation,’ I said. ‘This Quintus would not be the first victim of marital revenge.’

Marcus drained his winecup before he spoke. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I fear the worst. Quintus is a known supporter of the governor’s. He has supported him openly in the forum, and sent him personal gifts. He has also entertained me royally.’

Of course! It had not occurred to me to wonder how Marcus came to number a Corinium decurion among his acquaintance. No doubt he had been in receipt of some ‘personal gifts’ himself.

‘His friendship with the governor was well known?’

‘He has many
clientes
on that account,’ Marcus said.

I nodded. Every powerful man has his band of followers who visit him daily to pay court and bring gifts, hoping for patronage, or letters of recommendation to the mighty.

‘Two days ago, for the first time since the attack, he was well enough to entertain them. But after the visitors had left, something was found in the colonnade. A wax writing tablet. And on it was scratched in crude letters “Remember Pertinax”. Quintus thought it was a threat – related to the attack on the governor. He sent me a message yesterday, sealed and delivered by special courier. He fears another attack. That is where you come in, Libertus.’

I gaped at him. ‘You want me to go to Corinium and prevent it? To find out what happened?’ If this was a political intrigue at the highest level, I thought, I might as well stab myself in the back with my dagger now, and save someone else the trouble. I began to burble. ‘But Excellence, I’ve already been there trying to trace Gwellia. I was at the scene. I shall attract suspicion if I wander about asking questions. I shall be arrested, or people will take me for a government spy.’ Which, of course, is exactly what I would be. It was not a comfortable thought.

Marcus was not to be swayed. This was dangerous for him too, both politically and personally. He smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t want you to ask questions. At least, not openly. Quintus is undertaking some extensions to the public baths. I want you to design a pavement for him. It will give you a reason to be there, and you can keep your ears and eyes open.’

This was not a request, of course, although it was couched as one. It was a command, and a command from Marcus had all the force of a governor’s edict. If he asked you to go, you went – if you knew what was good for you. Whatever the dangers might be.

He smiled. ‘The pavement should be a valuable commission, and I knew you would welcome the chance to continue your search for . . . Gwellia, is it?’ Marcus himself had left a woman in Rome, but he surrounded himself with pretty women, and always regarded my loyalty to my former wife as an amusing aberration.

I made one last effort. ‘I have customers . . .’ I said feebly.

‘Refer them to me. And don’t worry about the travel. I shall take you to Corinium myself. Quintus will arrange accommodation.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now, enough of business: the slaves shall bring us some water for our hands, we’ll send for our napkins and spoons and go in to dine. I presume you have your own knife with you?’

I nodded, but my heart was not in it.

It was a pity, really. Marcus had arranged a simple but robust menu of my favourite Roman foods. Sea bream with lovage, then baked veal with leeks and aniseed, all rounded off with almond cakes with honey and pepper. Even the dreaded pickled fish sauce was served separately as a dip, in deference to my taste. I appreciated the gesture but somehow, with this visit to Corinium hanging over me, I had lost my appetite.

‘Well, at least I get a chance to go back to Corinium,’ I said, when, much later – after musicians and a comic recitation at which I remembered to laugh heartily – we bounced wearily home again. I smiled at Junio ruefully.

He grinned back, understanding perfectly. ‘So now we know what Marcus wanted.’

We went to Corinium the next day. Marcus had requisitioned a closed imperial carriage with a following cart for luggage and two mounted cavalrymen as escort, so the journey took only a few hours. One glimpse of the official insignia and the two outriders, and all other users of the military highway made way for us, as if by magic. It could hardly have been more different from my last visit to the town. This time, by comparison, the journey was luxury – not just for my ageing bones, but even for Junio, lurching along behind in the luggage cart with the other possessions. It was barely noon before the earth ramparts and wooden stockades of the town came into view, with their imposing newly built stone gatehouses and the slate roof of the basilica glittering beyond.