Enemies of the Empire Read online

  Nothing had been further from my thoughts but all at once it seemed a good idea. I did not fancy a dispute with three drunken men. Any one of them I might have tackled, even at my age, but combined and linking arms across the causeway as they now were, all at once they were formidable. They were all well dressed, well spoken and clearly affluent – the sort of people who can bribe town guards – and obviously they were looking for a fight.

  That would have been alarming in itself. I had heard tales of bands of wealthy, drunken youths like this roaming city streets after dark, fighting, causing damage, and terrorising passing townspeople. It was a problem which had started long ago, in Rome – the Emperor Nero was said to have led such a gang himself – and though he and the fashion were both long dead by now, there were still corners of the Empire where such things survived. Perhaps Venta was one of them. But there was a still more worrying possibility. I remembered what I had already learned, that areas of the town were unofficially controlled by rival family groups, and I wondered if I’d encountered one of them.

  Wisdom seemed to lie in a peaceable response. ‘I saw that there was a tavern over here,’ I said, as cheerfully and casually as I could, deciding that the presence of the inn afforded me a reasonable excuse for being in the vicinity. ‘I should be more than happy to provide a mug of wine, if you will tell me which way the forum is.’

  Big-ears looked stonily at me. ‘The forum, eh? Now why would you want the forum at this time of night?’

  These men were wealthy, but not citizens, at least not law-abiding toga-wearing ones. It was clear from their talk that they’d been at some form of public games – a gladiatorial contest thrown together in Marcus’s honour, by the sound of it – held in some amphitheatre in the town. If I had been invited to accompany my patron tonight, no doubt I would have been required to endure that quintessentially Roman spectacle as well.

  But if these youths were not invited guests (and their presence at the tavern suggested that they weren’t) they must have bought tickets for the privilege. Not hostile to all things Roman, then. A moment’s reflection suggested that my best hope was to give them some version of the truth.

  I tried my most winning smile again, and said in the best Latin that I could produce, ‘I left my slave outside the pastry shop there, with strict instructions that he was to wait for me. I’m a visitor from Glevum, just here for the day. I went off looking for silver cloak clasps for my wife, and now it seems that I have lost my way.’

  If I was hoping to impress them, I had failed. Cupidus gave another scornful laugh. ‘You left your slave behind? A likely tale! Whoever left a servant standing by and went walking after dark in a strange town without a bodyguard? Come on! You’ll tell me next that you’re a citizen and the town guard will worry if you’re set upon.’ He took a lurching step forward and thrust his flushed face close to mine. I could smell the cheap wine and vomit on his breath.

  I didn’t like the tone of this at all. ‘I am a citizen, in fact,’ I said. ‘I understand that you’ve been at the games. In that case you’ll have seen the visiting magistrate who was guest of honour there. His name is Marcus Aurelius Septimus and he comes from Glevum, over to the east. I’m a member of his party. I came here with him and I’m staying at the mansio tonight.’

  Cupidus put a heavy hand against my chest and pushed me roughly up against the wall. It seemed to be his favourite form of argument. ‘You think I’m blind and stupid, Tunic-face? If you’re a citizen, how come you’re dressed like this? And why weren’t you with him at the games as well? You just heard us gossiping and made this story up.’ He gave me another brutal shove. ‘You’re a low-born nobody – that’s what you are. A liar and probably a thief.’

  ‘He’s worse than that, Cupidus,’ said the spotty boy. ‘He’s a spy. I saw where he came from, when I came out just now – just to relieve myself, that’s all; it wasn’t that I’d drunk too much and had to get some air – anyway, I saw him. He came down that alleyway and was hiding in that doorway over there. Straight from the baths quarter of town.’

  Cupidus grabbed the neck of my tunic and forced my head and shoulders back against the wall. Drink had given him uncommon strength. ‘Is that so, my friend? A confounded bath-side spy, are we? Well, we know what to do with spies. The same thing as your ancestors once did to mine – may their spirits never sleep in peace.’ He laughed. ‘That makes you sweat with fear, does it? The thought of having your private parts cut off and stuffed into your mouth?’

  It was enough to strike terror into my bones. Such things have been reported in the past – and these youths were so buoyed up with drink that any atrocity was possible. But I have had dealings with would-be torturers before, and I knew that often those who talk most act least, and that to show panic was to play into their hands.

  Somehow I forced myself to say, as calmly as I could, ‘I doubt my ancestors did anything to yours. I have no connection with this area. I came from Glevum, as I told you earlier, but I was born a freeman and a Celtic chief, hundreds of miles from here, far off in the south. I was captured and sold as a slave, and on my master’s death was freed and bequeathed the rank of citizen. I told you, I came here with the Roman magistrate. I am no part of any local feud. Look at me. Do I even look like one of you?’

  Spotty-face had plucked up courage now, and he joined in the taunts. ‘What’s that supposed to prove? I haven’t got red hair either, nor the stocky build. My mother was from another tribe.’ He turned to Cupidus. ‘Of course the man’s a spy. Why else would he be setting out to hide?’

  Cupidus sneered at me. ‘We’ll see if you tell another story when we get you back and let the tribal elders question you. They fought alongside the Romans and they’ve learned a trick or two. They know how to make a man confess the truth.’

  ‘And so do I!’ Spotty-face had drawn a wicked-looking dagger from underneath his cloak. Carrying such arms in the street is a capital offence, even in more peaceful areas: here, with all the local problems I had heard about, the law was likely be ferociously enforced, but this boy did not look as if he cared. This was clearly an ancient weapon – and a deadly one, judging by the nicks along the glittering blade, and the fine carved sheath which he’d revealed at his belt, its writhing serpent clearly visible in the flickering red glow of the tavern torch. It was a tribal dagger, to be reckoned with. He handled it as if he were not at ease with it himself, though he brandished the blade with relish, right before my eyes, carving elaborate patterns in the air.

  I flinched, despite myself – such novices are more dangerous than practised criminals, who at least have some idea of what they’re doing.

  ‘Come on,’ Spotty-face said eagerly. ‘We’ll question him ourselves.’ He turned to me. ‘Let’s have the truth from you, before I make you disappear the way my uncle did.’

  I was about to protest weakly that what I had told them was the truth, when Big-ears suddenly spoke up. ‘Drop it, Laxus. Don’t let’s be hasty here. He might be right. I did hear that the Roman magistrate put in at the mansio and left a number of his party there. I suppose it is just possible that this man is one of them. Certainly he isn’t local, from his voice. I’ve never set eyes on him before.’ Spotty-face looked at him contemptuously, but he hurried on. ‘Suppose he is what he says he is, and the important Roman is his patron? Do you want to bring the wrath of the authorities down on your head? After all the money that your father spent on seeking civil office and trying to attract the attention of the provincial imperial power – even packed your seven brothers off to join the legions, just so that they’d all earn citizenship at the end. What do you suppose he would say, if you threw all that away and offended an important magistrate? Do you no good to be your mother’s favourite then – he’d cut off your peculium and leave you penniless. You’d be lucky to escape from army life yourself. And me, as well, since I consort with you. So, you do what you like. I want no part of it.’

  Cupidus had not let go of me. ‘The man’s a spy,’
he said. ‘You heard what Laxus said. He came from down the bath-house way and lurked – you know what those barbarians are like. Spies everywhere. Just look at him. Does he look like a Roman citizen to you?’ He banged my head against the wall to emphasise the point. ‘What do you propose? We let him go? Our families would be delighted about that! They’d cut off more than your peculium then!’ His voice was slurred but he was in control enough to give me another sharp tap against the wall.

  A little more of this treatment and I would be as fuddled as they were, though Big-ears, at least, seemed to be capable of sober thought. I said – as clearly as I could with Cupidus leaning heavily on my chest and crushing me against the stonework – ‘Well, there’s one easy way to check. Take me to the forum and we’ll find my slave.’

  There was a pause. You could almost hear the workings of their minds. Then, very slowly, Cupidus let me go. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But no tricks, you understand. You lead the way and we’ll be right behind. And if you’re lying, Jove have mercy on you . . .’

  ‘’Cause we won’t,’ both the others chorused, as if this was some kind of motto between the three of them.

  I was still a little shaken from events, but I did have the wit to point out that I still did not know which way the forum lay – that this was, after all, what I had asked them in the first place.

  ‘Round that corner to the left and then straight on,’ Big-ears said, gesturing impatiently. ‘The pastry shop is on the outside of the forum buildings, to the left again – let’s hope that slave of yours is waiting there.’

  So I had virtually been round the market in a square, I thought. I set off, as slowly as I dared, trying to buy a little time and think through the evening’s extraordinary events, though I was uncomfortably aware of the still drunken trio at my heels.

  Venta was a town of many secrets, it appeared. First Plautus had appeared, although he was supposed to be dead and buried. Then Lyra, apparently, had set spies on me, and Lupus from the thermopolium had told me that, under the outward appearance of Roman civic rule, the town was virtually in the grip of rival local gangs. One, clearly, was the so-called ‘bath-side’ group, and – in trying to escape from them – I had stumbled into the hands of my inebriated friends, who evidently regarded the latter as mortal enemies.

  Perhaps I could use that fact to my advantage here. ‘You might be interested to know that I think one of your bath-side friends was following me earlier,’ I said, slackening my pace to speak to them. ‘That’s why I was hiding in the door, to try to throw him off. I wonder why they were on my tail. Thought that I was an associate of yours, perhaps.’

  Cupidus was clearly unimpressed. He gave me an unfriendly shove. ‘Keep walking, friend.’ He was still flushed with drink and his face was wreathed in an unlovely leer.

  I had no choice but to comply. We were back in the commercial quarter now, and here and there men ran about with flaming links while small ox carts unloaded charcoal, wood and oil into half-shuttered shops, but at a prod from Laxus’s dagger I edged past without a word. I gave up all thought of reasoning with my captors and walked in silence, while they whispered taunts and jeers, until the dark bulk of the forum loomed up in front of us. It was deserted now. The colonnaded buildings which enclosed the forum square, and the massive outline of the basilica at the further end, were mere dark silhouettes against the sky.

  I stood there blinking stupidly, almost unable to believe my eyes. I hardly needed Cupidus to come up behind and murmur unpleasantly into my ear: ‘There’s your pastry shop. Where’s this famous slave?’

  Chapter Six

  I found myself gazing pointlessly up and down the empty street. I would have wagered a great deal that Promptillius had the kind of dogged and dutiful stupidity which would have kept him remaining obediently in a burning shop, if someone had not ordered him to move. But there was not the slightest sign of him.

  Matters were looking distinctly menacing. Spotty Laxus still had his dagger at my back, and for a moment I thought that Cupidus was going to urge him on, but at that instant a grubby boy came out of the pastry shop. He was thin, half starved and wispy, perhaps seven or eight years old, and he was carrying a board, on which was piled what looked like the wood-ash of a fire. I guessed he was a slave-boy, set to work to clean the ovens out ready for the next day’s cookery: it is not unusual for tradesmen, even humble ones, to have young slaves like this, especially when they sell necessities. There is always some family more wretched than their own which has not the wherewithal to pay its bills and is happy to offer an unwanted child instead, reducing the number of hungry mouths to feed.

  There was an oil lamp still burning in the shop, judging by the glow that filled the door, and the child stood a moment on the threshold, blinking in the dark. When he saw us he stiffened. ‘What are you doing here again? My master has already paid his dues this month.’ He was trembling so much that he spilt some of his ash, and he looked as if he would have bolted back inside if he had dared.

  Cupidus came up behind me and seized me by the neck. He said, unpleasantly, ‘It’s not you we’re after . . . this time. We’re looking for a non-existent slave. This lying wretch,’ he gave me such a shake that my teeth rattled, ‘declares he left one waiting here. You get on with what you’re doing, and be quick or I’ll tell your master you were standing gossiping.’

  The lad’s eyes were wide with fright: the whites shone in the moonlight. He knelt to scrape up as much as possible of what he’d spilt, and, failing, scuttled round the corner to the passageway where obviously the household’s midden was.

  As he was disappearing, I called after him. ‘I don’t suppose, since you were working here, that you happened to see anyone yourself?’ I guessed that he was not often spoken to without a curse or a blow, and I deliberately used a courteous form of words and tried to make my tone as kind as possible.

  It worked. He stopped and looked at me, then volunteered, ‘A plumpish fellow with a big round lumpy face?’

  I nodded. ‘Exactly like a loaf of unbaked bread.’

  That made him smile. ‘I saw him. Wearing a scarlet tunic you could hardly miss. He was standing over there.’ He nodded towards the pavement opposite.

  Big-ears turned to Cupidus. ‘There you are, you see. It’s just as well I didn’t let you two go rushing into things. It seems there really was a slave.’ He was clearly the most nervous of the three, which was probably why he had been the voice, throughout, of caution and restraint.

  Cupidus gave his nasty grin again. ‘And how do we know that? We’ve only got his word for it – his and this wretched slave’s. They probably arranged all this between themselves. Amazing what people will agree to say, if you promise to pay them a sestertius or two.’

  The child was shaking his head nervously. ‘He was there for simply ages. You ask anyone. You couldn’t help but notice him: he was dressed in such a fancy tunic, like a uniform, and he seemed to be in everybody’s way. I wondered what he was doing there.’

  I nodded. That sounded like Promptillius to me. ‘When did he give up waiting?’

  The child shrugged, cascading another little pile of ash. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t answer that. He was here last time I looked, that’s all I know.’

  ‘And how long ago was that? An hour? Or more?’ Aurissimus snapped out.

  The boy had found confidence from somewhere, because he answered back. ‘I don’t know. How am I supposed to tell? No water clocks in our house.’ Aurissimus took a threatening step towards him, and he added hastily, ‘Just before sundown. I came out to get more logs and charcoal for the fire, and I noticed he was still hanging around then.’ He frowned. ‘Talking to somebody, I think, now I look back on it.’

  ‘What sort of somebody?’ Surprise and anxiety made me sound as sharp as my companions had, and I saw the poor lad flinch instinctively. I softened my voice, and added, ‘Can you remember that?’

  He was terrified, you could see it in his face, but he shook his head.
‘I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. My master beats me if I take too long. He’ll beat me now, when I get in again.’

  ‘Nothing to what we’ll do, if you can’t tell us more than that.’ Cupidus was scornful. ‘Show him your dagger, Laxus.’ Laxus waved it, dangerously close. ‘Does that refresh your memory at all?’

  The poor lad was almost blubbering by now, and the board slipped entirely from his hands and clattered to the ground. ‘A boy, I think. A big boy – that’s right – he had a cup and ball. That’s all I know. I remember looking at it and wishing that I had one like that.’

  ‘Huh! Not good enough . . .’ Cupidus began, and motioned Laxus forward with his blade. What would have happened to the little lad I cannot guess, but my startled exclamation interrupted them.

  ‘Rufinus! Lyra’s messenger!’ I said. ‘You’re sure about the toy?’ I turned towards the child-slave, who had dropped to his knees and was trying feverishly to scoop up the scattered ashes with pathetic, trembling hands. He glanced up at me with a tearstained face.

  ‘I didn’t really look at anything but that,’ he managed, between sobs. ‘I’m sorry, sirs. I didn’t think it mattered. It’s all I can remember – honestly. I swear by all the gods . . .’ He went back to scrabbling at his hopeless task again. It was clear that he feared a thrashing from his master over it.

  His plight touched me, so that for a moment I forgot my own potential danger and, ignoring Laxus and his knife, went over and squatted on my haunches next to him. ‘Of course you were looking at the cup and ball. Because you longed to have one of your own?’

  The child looked up at me. ‘I never had a toy. I had a sort of cart-thing once my father carved for me, but when he sold me to the pastry-cook . . .’

  My turn to nod. I too had been a slave, but only as an adult. My childhood had been a very happy one, full of dogs and horses and gambols on the cliffs and in the streams, with playthings and playfellows aplenty. What this child’s miserable existence must have been, I could only half imagine.