A Bitter Chill (36 page)

“I shall. Probably for the rest of my life.”

There was a gentle tap at the door. Quintus got up, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of them.”

“No, let’s see who it is. If I don’t want to talk, I’ll lie still as if I’m asleep, and you can send them away.”

But when he opened the door I sat up straight, because the visitor was Timaeus.

He came over and looked at me carefully, not like a man gazing at a woman in bed, but like a doctor examining a patient. “How are you feeling, Aurelia?”

“I’ll live.”

“I heard what happened and I offered to help, but Antonius preferred to look after you himself.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Either the man was innocent, or he had a colossal amount of nerve.

“Aurelia’s recovering, as you see,” Quintus said, “but she’s still very tired. So if that’s all you wanted….”

“No, it’s not. I want to tell you that I’m leaving for Eburacum today. I have Sempronia’s permission to go, and though I don’t strictly speaking need yours, I’d rather you know about it. I don’t want you to think I’m running away.”

“We’ll have a better idea what to think when you’ve told us why you’re going,” Quintus answered.

“To search for Margarita and Gaius, of course. And to get away from Sempronia. She blames me for not preventing Lord Plautius’ death.”

“Do you mean she believes that you caused it?” I asked.

“She knows I didn’t. She’s found a note from Priscus, confessing to the murder.”

“No. She’s found another part of young Gaius’ note, confessing to letting out the cat.”

“Of course! I should have realised it might be that! So someone’s used the same trick again, trying to put the blame on Priscus this time.” He shook his head, and even now I couldn’t help admiring the way his wavy chestnut hair shone, and feeling the warmth of his winning smile.

But I hardened my heart. “Where will you stay in Eburacum?”

“At Clarilla’s house, for tonight. After that, it depends.”

“If you find them,” Quintus said slowly, “you’ll bring them back, won’t you?”

Timaeus paused and gazed at us, completely still for a few heartbeats. “Have my feelings been so obvious?”

“No,” I answered. “Not until you decided to pick a fight with Diogenes.”

He swore under his breath. “I wish I’d killed the little rat! But I shouldn’t have let people see how I…how fond I am of Margarita and Gaius. I was so angry when they were handed over to the criminals, without even a token resistance.”

“So angry that you took your revenge on Plautius?” Quintus asked.

“No! I didn’t kill Plautius.”

“You’re the obvious person,” Quintus persisted. “Doctors have a good knowledge of poisons, and how to use them. You handled your patient’s food last night. You saw an opportunity to kill him, and….”

“No! Don’t you understand, I wanted him to get well again. I did everything I could to help him to recover. Because I hoped, one day, I’d be able to persuade him to change his will.”

“Did you indeed?” Quintus’ purple eyes flashed. “Let me guess. You wanted him to give Margarita and Gaius their freedom, instead of bequeathing them to Horatius?”

Timaeus sighed and lowered his eyes. “Is that such a terrible thing? I know she loves Priscus, and he loves her. But I thought if she’s free, there’s just a chance she might come to realise how I feel. Now she’ll never be free. She belongs to Horatius.”

“And you’ll bring them to Horatius, won’t you,” Quintus said gently, “if you find them in Eburacum before anyone else does? Otherwise we’ll have to conclude that you murdered Plautius with the intention of running off with two of his slaves.”

Timaeus looked straight at us then. “I will.”

“You swear it?”

“I swear it, Antonius. I’ll bring them back.”

“Then good hunting. I’ll be in Eburacum myself tomorrow. You can reach me at Brocchus’ mansio near the fortress, if you need to.”

After he’d gone, I lay back in bed. “There goes an unhappy man. But not a murderer, I’d say.”

“I don’t know. He’s the cleverest of all the people we’re viewing as suspects.”

Margarita, I thought, arouses love wherever she goes, in all sorts of men. It’s a quality to be envied, even if it brings her trouble…. But I saw Quintus watching me, and realised there was no woman I envied just then.

I ate a piece of bread and honey about noon, and then got up, bathed, and went to laze in the sitting-room that looked out over the garden. The snow had all but gone, and the flower-beds and gravel walks were bright in the winter sun. I shooed Quintus off to bed to catch up the sleep he’d missed while nursing me through last night. By now I felt more or less back to normal, except that my stomach was sore still, and I was very tired. I wondered how many other people were in a similar state after their Saturnalia celebrations, and lay down full-length on one of the cushioned couches, ready to doze the afternoon away.

“Ah, you’re up and about, m’dear. That’s good.” Horatius was standing over me, smiling down in the amiable mellow mood he usually reached by this time of day. “How are you feeling?”

Holy Diana, if anyone else asks me that, there may be another murder. No, gently, Aurelia, he means it kindly. I said, “Not too bad, considering everything.”

He sat down on a neighbouring couch. “Dreadful, all this. Quite appalling. I feel responsible, in a way.”

All at once I was wide awake. “I’m sorry? Responsible for Plautius’ death, you mean?”

“No, not quite that! You’d make a good lawyer, m’dear, I’ll have to watch my words. What I meant was, I wish I’d taken Gnaeus more seriously when he talked about his secret enemies and how he didn’t feel safe.”

“But we all took him seriously after someone tried to kill him at the Oak Tree.”

He scratched his head. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t believe that was an attack on Plautius. The dagger was meant for Idmon himself.”

“The bodyguard? But I was told nobody knew he was sleeping in his master’s bed, except Plautius himself, and Timaeus.”

“Stuff and rubbish! Everyone knew, they were just very careful not to show it. Gnaeus had used a slave as a decoy before, several times. He may have thought it was a closely guarded secret, but you know how slaves gossip.”

“Who’d want to kill the guard, though?”

“Ah, now, that I haven’t worked out yet.”

“So you’re suggesting there are two murderers—one who killed Idmon and then Leander, and another who killed Plautius? With respect, that takes some believing.”

“With respect!” he mimicked. “I was right, you’re almost a lawyer already.”

“I think women might make good lawyers, if men would allow them to. We’d cut to the chase when we were making our speeches, instead of spending hours waffling.”

“But if we didn’t spend hours waffling, how would we justify our fees?”

“You’ve got a point there.” I laughed, and then yawned. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a bit sleepy.”

“Well, before you have your nap, let me tell you something I think you should know. Only will you swear you won’t pass it on to Sempronia?”

“Yes. But I may need to tell Quintus Antonius.”

“Oh, I’m assuming you will. Now you know I promised poor Plautius that I wouldn’t let Sempronia force him to make a new will.”

“I remember. Because he felt vulnerable and could only concentrate for short spells of time. He seemed a good deal better yesterday, I thought.”

“He was. But Sempronia never stopped nagging him, cajoling, bullying, on and on. If he wouldn’t have a new will drawn up, then would he make the changes she wanted to the existing document? We’d worked out what we would do if she became too insistent, and in the end he agreed to make one change to the will itself, and add a codicil.”

“I heard about the change. He crossed out the paragraph that would have freed Diogenes.”

“You’re well-informed, m’dear. It was the only one of Sempronia’s alterations that he felt like making, and of course she was delighted. And then when he added a codicil disinheriting Decimus, she really thought she’d won. But she hadn’t.”

“But she had, if Candidus has lost his inheritance.”

“Ah, but he hasn’t. You can’t use a codicil to disinherit an important member of the family, like the eldest son. That needs a much more formal procedure.”

The phrase “with respect” took on a new meaning. “So the codicil isn’t legally binding?”

He chuckled. “No. Never stand up in court, if anyone challenged it, which they won’t. Decimus keeps his inheritance, and I’ve kept my promise.”

“Have you told Sempronia?”

“Yes. Not immediately we opened the will, naturally. I let a bit of time go by, during which I ‘discovered my error’.” He laughed heartily. “She wasn’t very happy.”

“And she doesn’t know that you realised the codicil wasn’t valid?”

“No, she thinks I made a foolish mistake, and she’s called me all sorts of names because of what she regards as my carelessness. But if I let rows with Sempronia disturb me, I’d have gone out of my mind long ago.”

“This is none of my business, Horatius, but I can’t help saying congratulations. I’m sure Plautius’ shade appreciates what you did.”

He nodded. “When you go to Eburacum and see Decimus, can you let him know what I’ve just told you?”

“Yes, if you like. But why don’t you tell him yourself?”

He looked out of the window, then round the room, anywhere but into my eyes.

“It’s awkward, d’you see. If I’d let Sempronia have the changes she wanted, it would have been rather more to my advantage than keeping the old will.”

“But I thought the existing will bequeaths Margarita to you?”

He shrugged. “It does, but I’m not such a fool as you all think me. I can’t take Margarita, not if Priscus wants her. If we ever find her, I’ll give her her freedom, and she can choose for herself. She’ll choose Priscus, for certain.”

“That’s generous, Horatius. You’re fond of her, aren’t you?”

“I am.” He sighed. “But the thing is, I’m financially in rather a pickle just at present. Got a bit carried away betting at the races last summer. It’s only temporary, of course. But Sempronia had promised me that if I got the will changed, or a new one made, my debts would be paid off. However, it’s not to be. And Sempronia’s so annoyed with me now that she won’t even pay me the fee we agreed. But Decimus is head of the family, and perhaps if he could see his way….” He tailed off, but I’d got the message.

“I’ll make sure he knows that you did the honourable thing, even though it went against your own interests. He’s an honourable man himself, and he’s also rich now, thanks to you. Leave it with me.”

“Thank you, m’dear. You’re leaving for Eburacum tomorrow?”

“Quintus and I are, yes.”

“So am I. So are we all. Clarilla is letting us use her house there.”

“I know. We’ll be staying at the mansio near the fortress. You’ll be glad to get home to Londinium, I expect.”

“I can’t say this has been a pleasant trip. Feels like the end of an era, now poor Plautius is gone.” He wiped his eyes and sniffed. His mood was slipping gently from mellow to maudlin. “You’ll be looking for Diogenes and Priscus?”

“We will, though Quintus doesn’t think we’ve much chance of finding Diogenes. And we’ll be searching for Margarita and Gaius too, of course. There’s a slave auction the day after tomorrow. If the kidnappers have sold the pair of them on to one of the major dealers, we should be able to buy them back.”

“I do hope so. I think Plautius and Sempronia were quite wrong, you know, to get rid of them like that.” He clasped my hand for a heartbeat. “I know you’ll do your best, m’dear. And now I’ll leave you to your nap. You’ll need all your strength for tomorrow.”

C
HAPTER
XXVI

We left Clarus’ villa before dawn next morning, to make the most of the winter day. I don’t know why the gods, who give Britannia so much beauty, have to be so tight-fisted when they dole out our ration of daylight for the winter months. If you ask priests about it, they solemnly tell you the gods move in mysterious ways, which means they don’t know either.

We went back to the Oak Tree first. I’d sent a message there the previous afternoon about our travel arrangements, so all I needed to do when I arrived was have a few words with the senior staff and collect some clothes. The Saturnalia party had apparently been a huge success, and everyone said I should have been there. I answered truthfully, I only wished I had been.

From the mansio to Eburacum is about sixteen miles on good Roman roads. The journey was uneventful, especially for me, because I slept through most of it. Quintus and I travelled in the large raeda, with Titch driving, and Taurus riding alongside as guard. When we set off, I was full of good intentions about making use of the quiet, uninterrupted journey to discuss our investigations. But my tired body wanted to relax. I leant against Quintus’ shoulder and fell asleep soon after we passed the Oak Bridges turning.

I woke up as we reached the town, about two hours before dark. The streets were lively, the food-shops and taverns doing good holiday business. Everywhere there were people strolling about in the winter sunshine, and we passed a couple of acrobats and a troupe of street musicians entertaining the crowds. Brocchus’ mansio was near the fortress, in the civilian quarter—the camp, as the locals still called it, because that’s how it had started. When we first came to Brigantia half a generation ago, there was just a higgledy-piggledy maze of unpaved streets crammed with houses and shops, for the soldiers’ families mostly. Then some enterprising civilians realised what a good living they could make from the army, and the place was now a thriving little town, with its main streets paved or gravelled, and an open space for markets.

Titch knew Eburacum well, having been brought up there, and he drove us straight to the mansio. It was a substantial two-storey building, with a courtyard behind it and stables alongside. I knew the innkeeper Brocchus, a wiry curly-haired veteran, who greeted us cheerfully and showed us into a pleasant set of rooms overlooking the fortress. The solid military bulk of the Ninth Legion’s headquarters was very Roman and reassuring, but being used to the country, I found it strange to be in the middle of so many buildings. I felt that if we’d been much closer to the fortress, the sentries on the ramparts would have been able to watch us in bed.