A Bitter Chill (43 page)

“It wasn’t like that,” Margarita said gently. “After your mother bought me, Timaeus left Londinium and went home to his family in Crete. I wasn’t free to follow him, and I was sure I’d never see him again. I thought I could make myself forget him. And you were so good to me, so gentle, I believed that with you I’d found a different kind of love. But now I’ve met him again, and…. The gods know I never meant to deceive you.”

“So every night, when we made love, were you dreaming of Timaeus?”

“Never, I swear it.”

“Yet you didn’t forget him.”

“I thought of him sometimes.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Oh my dear, I can’t lie about this. Gaius is his child.”

“No! You swore that you stopped seeing him when you came to me.”

“But I was already with child when your mother bought me.”

Priscus gave a low moan, like an animal in pain. It made me turn cold inside.

“I’m truly sorry,” Margarita said. “Please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you. You’ve every right to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you!” he burst out. “I wish I could, it would be so much easier! No, I love you more than anything else in the world. Gods, I’ve killed my own father for your sake, doesn’t that tell you how much I love you?”

“You killed your father?” She stepped back in horror. “But why?”

“Because Father told Diogenes to hand you and Gaius over to the kidnappers. He hoped when you were taken away from me I’d forget you. So I poisoned him.”

“Did you kill the two slaves as well? Did you murder three people, thinking that would show you loved me?”

“No, of course I didn’t. They had no power to hurt me. Only Father had that. And now you. If I’ve lost you and Gaius, I’ve lost everything!”

Before we realised what he was doing, he ran along the gangway and sprang onto the deck of the boat. “I’ve killed my father. I can’t undo it, and I can’t regret it. Now I have only one honourable choice.” He pulled a dagger from his belt.

“No!” Margarita screamed. “Priscus, that’s not the way!”

He turned his back on us, so we didn’t witness how he used the blade. But we saw it fly through the air, dripping with blood, as he flung it away from him, and then he plunged into the river. It was deep there, and he sank like a stone, straight down without moving.

“Help him!” Margarita shrieked. “Somebody help him!” She ran forward, but I stopped her. She was too weak after her long ordeal. She stood statue-still, like the rest of us. We seemed to be held motionless by some force outside ourselves. We saw Priscus’ head show once above the water, but still he made no effort to save himself. He sank a second time, and didn’t surface again.

Candidus said, “It’s best, perhaps. He’s done a dreadful wrong, but may god give him peace now.” He made a sign like a cross in the air, and there were tears in his eyes.

Albia came and stood next to me. “I believe Priscus,” she said softly. “Why would he lie? He killed his father, but not the others.”

“I believe him too,” I agreed. “But I’m still not convinced by Diogenes’ account, are you?”

“No.”

“Let’s hear Timaeus’ version.” I looked over to where he and Margarita stood together, hand in hand. “Timaeus, will you answer us a couple of questions?”

The sternness in my tone made him release Margarita and come to stand in front of me. “Yes, of course, Aurelia. What is it?”

“I want to know about the first attack on Lord Plautius. At the Oak Tree, when Idmon was acting as decoy in his bed. Whose turn should it have been to sleep there?”

“Mine. But I swapped with Idmon because my lord was so ill. I wanted to be ready if he needed me in the night.”

“I thought it was Diogenes’ turn.”

“Gods, not him! He only ever did one night as decoy, and then he refused absolutely to do another. Plautius ordered him to, but he always found an excuse to get out of it—he wasn’t well, or he needed to be on hand in case Sempronia called him. But he was just plain afraid. He’s a born coward,” he added, with scathing contempt. “Look at the fuss he made over that little dog bite, refusing to go anywhere near the stable block after it happened….”

“Dog bite?” I said, hardly daring to breathe. “What dog bite?”

“On his leg. He got bitten by Victor’s dog. He said she attacked him, but I don’t know why. He must have been upsetting her, or the pups.”

“Did he ask you to treat the bite?”

He nodded. “I put some ointment on it, and a bandage.”

“When did he come to you about it?”

“The morning after Leander was killed. Look, do you need me any more? I must get back to Margarita.”

“Just one more question, Timaeus. Were you and Idmon rivals for a maid called Ebrel?”

“Ebrel? Gods, no. A nice enough lass, but—all right, I can guess where you’re driving. You’ve seen me flirting, playing the part of the carefree lad who likes a good time. But it was just an act. I tried hard, but I couldn’t feel anything for any other woman, once I’d seen Margarita again.”

***

By the time we got to Clarilla’s house, Quintus and Rufus had arrived there, and Diogenes had confessed to murdering Idmon and Leander, and helping to poison Plautius.

The two events weren’t connected. I expect Quintus could have found a way to make the Weasel talk, but he’d never have come up with anything more frightening to Diogenes than Sempronia in a rage. She’d bullied the truth out of him, or as much of the truth as he was ever going to reveal. He’d killed Idmon, mistaking him for Timaeus and jealous of the growing attraction between the doctor and Margarita, and stabbed Leander to try and cover his tracks. Later he’d helped to poison Plautius, fearing his master would alter his will and deprive him of the chance of freedom.

Sempronia was still in a fury over her slave’s treachery when we got there, but her rage turned to bitter weeping when she heard how Priscus died.

“I can’t believe it!” she kept repeating. “That dear Aulus should kill his own father! His
father,
who was willing to give him everything he wanted…” and more of the same, till Quintus and I had had enough.

“This is a Plautius family council,” Quintus said gravely. “We’ve no place here, Sempronia. We’ll be on our way. If you need us later, you can contact us at Brocchus’ mansio.”

That made her angry again. “But your investigation is not complete.”

“I think it is. We’ve established that Diogenes killed your two slaves, and that Priscus poisoned your husband. Now Diogenes has admitted to helping him. Candidus offered to free him if he told us the truth, but only if he was innocent.”

“To
free
him? How dare you, Decimus? You’ve no authority!”

“I have, Mother. I’m head of the family now, and I have the power to free our slaves if I choose.” He paused to let her take this in. At last she nodded, and he went on. “But there’s no question of releasing him now. He must be put to death, after what he’s done.”

“But exactly what
has
he done?” I asked. “Did he poison Lord Plautius’ dates?”

“He did,” she answered grimly, “all but one. And he saw to it that Timaeus chose to eat the only one that was safe. How he did that, I do not know. Unless Timaeus was in the plot too?”

“He wasn’t.” I made myself recall the scene in the brightly lit dining-room. Timaeus took a date from the oval silver dish and ate it, and nodded, and then Plautius reached for the sweets….

“I think I see how it could be done.” I glanced round the room. On a side table stood an oval plate of small pastries. I chose one at random, and scratched a small mark on the underside of it with my thumbnail. I showed it to Albia. “That’s the poisoned cake. Now I’ll arrange the dish so you pick it out.” I carefully kept my back to them all, blocking their view while I placed the little cakes in an oval shape round the edges of the dish. At either end of the oval, the pattern came to a point, and I put the marked pastry at one end as part of the design. When I held the dish out with the narrow end towards Albia, one pastry stood out invitingly, and she chose it.

“Yes,” she agreed, checking that she’d selected the marked one. “With an oval shape, Diogenes could make it almost certain that Timaeus would pick the one that was safe. Perhaps he put in two safe sweets, one at each end.”

Candidus turned to Sempronia. “So you see, Mother, they’ve completed the investigation, and we’ve no right to detain them. Antonius…Aurelia…thank you for everything. I’ve learnt some useful lessons in the last few days. You can safely leave this family’s affairs in my hands.” He smiled at Albia. “And you can trust me to take very good care of my girl.”

The sun was going down in a misty red blaze as we strolled along towards the mansio. Halfway there we met Horatius, weaving an unsteady course up the street and singing to himself. He greeted us with a big smile. “Antonius! Aurelia! How splendid! Come and have a drink. I’m celebrating, but Sempronia says it’s in bad taste to be enjoying myself in a house of mourning, so I had to come out to find some cheerful company.”

“Thanks, but we’re on our way back to the mansio,” Quintus smiled. “There’s somebody there we have to meet, just before dark.”

“What are you celebrating?” I smiled at him, remembering how he and that other Horatius had helped to give me courage on the jetty.

“Some good news. D’you know what Plautius did before he died? No, course you don’t. Before he left Londinium, he wrote to his bankers, cancelling all my debts to him, and giving me a big enough sum of money to pay off my other creditors. I only found it out when I was going through his papers today. He left me a note, to be opened if he died, explaining what he’d done. He must have had a premonition about ending his life here.” He laughed. “I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it. He said in the note that he hadn’t told me before we left home, because he was afraid I’d refuse to travel with them if I didn’t need to earn a fee. He was probably right. But wasn’t that a fine thing to do?”

“It was,” Quintus agreed. “And you deserve it. You were a good friend to him, and behaved honourably. Will you go back to Londinium with Sempronia now?”

“Yes, I expect so.” He hiccupped noisily. “But not tonight. Tonight is for having a good time. Come and join me later, if you like. I’ll be the one buying all the drinks!” He waved a farewell, and meandered on his way.

“I wouldn’t want him as my lawyer,” I said as we entered the mansio, “but he’s not a bad old stick. Now who’s this we’re supposed to be meeting—or was that just an excuse?”

“No, it’s someone I know you’ll be pleased to see.”

He was right. Waiting in the bar-room was my brother.

“Lucius! This is wonderful!” We hugged one another, while Quintus ordered a jug of wine.

“I just looked in to make sure you’re all in one piece, Sis,” my brother said. “Quintus says you’ve been getting into scrapes, but you look as if you’ve survived. And thanks to your help, I’ve finished the business that brought me up here. Thank you both.” He picked up a beaker. “Let’s drink a toast—to a happy future for us all.”

It was the first of many toasts, and the evening developed into a party. Well, why not? Like old Horatius, we had something worth celebrating. And like him, we were the ones buying all the drinks.

C
HAPTER
XXXI

Albia and Candidus were married in Eburacum, on a glorious blue April day of birdsong and spring flowers. It was a perfect wedding. Albia, Lucius, and I stayed the night before at Clarilla’s house, so we could walk in procession from there to the groom’s home as custom demanded.

And the groom’s home was no longer the damp, cramped quarters behind the warehouse down-river. Candidus had bought a bright new house in the centre of town, and Albia had helped him choose the decorations and furniture for it. “Nothing but the best for my girl,” he’d assured us, and it was clear he meant it.

My sister looked radiant, supremely pretty and happy, her brown eyes sparkling and her dark brown curls showing up beautifully against the flame colour of the wedding veil. I felt extremely proud of her, as well as overjoyed that all the trials and tensions of the last few months were behind us. I also had a tiny twinge of sadness because I was losing her, but I put aside thoughts of how much I should miss her. Nothing was allowed to dim the joyful atmosphere today.

The guests assembled at Clarilla’s house just before noon. Lucius and Quintus were resplendent in gleaming togas, and I’d made sure my new peacock-blue tunic and matching over-tunic were fashionably eye-catching. My sandals were in the latest style, and gave me fashionably painful blisters.

We weren’t a large party of guests, but you’d go a long way to find a happier one. Clarus and Clarilla were among the friends who’d made the journey from Oak Bridges, along with a large contingent from the Oak Tree. Timaeus was there, with his new wife and his son, and a handsome group they were, as well as a joyful one. Margarita was free now, and she and Gaius shared in our excitement as if they were part of our family. In a way they almost were, because the three of them had taken up residence in Oak Bridges so that Margarita could be my housekeeper at the Oak Tree. She could never be Albia, but she would be a pretty good substitute.

Even old Horatius had come north for the occasion, and cheerfully endured our teasing about the distance that some folk will travel just to get free drinks. We also had a military presence, in the shape of a dashing red-headed young cavalry trooper—still a very new recruit, but as cocky and proud as any victorious general leading his triumph through the streets of Rome.

The only notable person missing was Sempronia, though of course she’d been invited. She declined in a reasonably polite note, explaining that she was too old and tired for the long road north. She had the grace to wish the young couple well, and I didn’t hear anyone lamenting her absence.

The sun shone warm as we paraded through the streets, with all the traditional trappings. There were torch-bearers, musicians, and dancers, and we were accompanied all the way by the usual crowd of small boys, who always know by instinct where to find a wedding procession. They cavorted about shouting ribald jokes and making so much din that everyone for several streets around knew this was a special day.