Текст книги "The Queen of the Night"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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The deeper into the city they walked, the busier the crowds became. Here and there a squad of auxiliaries or a group of Vigiles squatted outside the door of some tavern keeping an eye on what was happening, though they were more prepared to take a bribe and look the other way than do anything. Of course people recognised Murranus and greeted him with good-natured abuse and catcalls, which the gladiator just ignored.

'I wish…' Claudia paused at the corner of the alleyway leading down to the Lucia Gloriosa tavern.

'What do you wish?' Murranus bent down to hear above the sound of a line of clattering carts.

'I wish I'd questioned Theodore more closely.'

Murranus just squeezed her hand. 'Oh, don't worry about him,' he reassured. 'Theodore will make himself at home. He'll relax and tomorrow it will be all the easier to question him.'

Claudia agreed and walked on towards the Lucia Gloriosa, a fine, spacious eating-house and wine shop, in many ways very similar to the She Asses tavern. The owner, a former soldier, explained that there were no chambers upstairs, only a long, high-ceilinged room into which he ushered them. The chamber's pink plaster walls were unadorned except for hanging baskets of woven reeds and the occasional coloured cloth. The veterans were already assembled, grouped at one end of a trestle table in the middle of which stood a small portable Lares, its doors open to display a statue of some god, a figure on a rearing horse. The statue looked old. Fashioned out of bronze, it had already turned slightly green, the metal starting to flake. Before the statue glowed two small oil lamps placed either side of a loaf of bread, a bunch of grapes and a jug of wine. The three men were busy, heads together, talking amongst themselves. At first they ignored the new arrivals, then Murranus coughed and the three men drew apart.

'What do you want?' The large, burly-faced man sitting at the end of the table spread out his hands and stared at them aggressively. 'Who do you think you are coming up here? Don't you know?' He glared at the tavern-keeper, who was still standing in the doorway.

'I think you'd better explain,' Murranus whispered.

Claudia undid her cloak, laid it on the end of the table and came forward, hands extended. 'My name is Claudia,' she declared. 'I have been sent by the Empress Helena; she wishes me to investigate the deaths of your two comrades.'

'You? Investigate?' One of the men sniggered and turned away.

'You had better listen to me,' Claudia retorted. 'Two of your comrades have been killed: a cut to the belly, their throats sliced and then castrated.' She paused. 'I am Claudia, agent of the Empress. I carry her bulla, her seal. Shall I call up a squad of Vigiles or those mercenaries lounging in the nearby market, then we can go to the palace so all this can be verified? Oh, by the way.' Claudia noticed how the veterans had shifted their attention to her escort. 'This is Murranus, Victor Ludorum – Champion of the Games, but also a freedman.'

The veterans relaxed. They waved the newcomers to the bench, found two more cups and filled each with a measure of water and wine.

As Claudia and Murranus settled at the table, the veterans introduced themselves as Stathylus, Crispus and Secundus; their Latin names belied both their appearance and their accents, which clearly showed them to be provincials. They acted full of confidence, old soldiers who'd seen all the horrors of war and could not be surprised by anything new. Claudia had met their kind before: leathery-skinned, sharp-featured, still wiry despite the folds of fat round the belly and face. They were dressed simply in tunics, belts and sandals. She noticed the war belts heaped in the corner as well as the cudgels and walking sticks lying on top of their cloaks. They were friendly enough, explaining how they met here regularly to share bread and wine and toast former comrades, recall long-forgotten battles and pay homage to their guardian Epona, horse goddess of the Iceni, a tribe which lived along the eastern coastline of Britain. They revelled in their former membership of the Fretenses, and were proud to be called the Vigiles Muri.

Claudia let them chatter on as the wine flowed. Stathylus, sitting at the top of the table, had been a junior officer, a decurion. He was hard-faced, with close-set eyes; he remained both watchful and hostile, aware of what Claudia was doing. Now and again he'd urge his two companions to drink slower or mix more water in their wine cups. Claudia, however, gently encouraged them to discuss their earlier careers, and of course, like all old soldiers, they were only too willing to talk. They were all Iceni horsemen from the flat plains of eastern Britain. Horse-lovers, born cavalrymen, they described how they'd been recruited into the Catephracti, the heavily armed cavalry, and been given various postings in that faraway, mist-shrouded province. Eventually they'd been posted to a mile fort along the Great Wall Emperor Hadrian had built in the north, stretching from coast to coast to seal off the province from the wild tribes beyond. They'd fought under a veteran centurion, Postulus, but during the civil wars, mutinies and the emergence of pretenders such as Allectus and Carausius, their numbers had been depleted. They were proud of having fought for Constantine Chlorus, the present Emperor's father, and of supporting the cause of Helena and her son through all their difficulties. They had as a unit been honourably discharged and given the opportunity to settle outside Rome. Some had brought their wives and families; others had simply deserted their roots for a new future at the heart of the Empire.

Secundus and Crispus did most of the talking. Born storytellers, they described their service in Britain, conjuring up images of deep forests, lonely wind-swept moorlands, freezing winters when all was carpeted in snow, followed by springs bursting with light and summers which brought the brilliant green grasslands and cornfields to life. They talked of warm breezes, a golden sun and rain-washed blue skies. Above all they described the Great Wall. Many of the tribes regarded this as the work of the gods with its soaring crenellated wall, watchtowers, signal posts, mile castles and great five-mile fortresses. The two men described the boredom of military life, offset by the terrors which lay beyond the wall, where savage Picts and Caledonians, superb fighters, slipped like wraiths through the tangled heather to probe, attack and ambush. The savagery and cunning of these tribesmen was something they had never forgotten, a terrifying nightmare constantly lurking just beyond the Roman line, ever vigilant, ruthless and merciless. Claudia listened fascinated, aware of the day dying, the darkness deepening, the flames of the oil lamps growing stronger. She became less aware of the peppery, spicy odour of the room, with its wisps of black smoke, whilst every time she looked at the carving of Epona, it seemed more lifelike. She noticed, however, that all three veterans deliberately skirted the crowning glory of their careers, the ambush and annihilation of that Pictish war band. At last

Crispus drew their story to a close. Claudia waited for Stathylus to step into her trap, which he obligingly did.

'What has this,' he hissed, leaning against the table, 'got to do with two of our comrades being killed here in Rome?'

'Everything.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look.' Claudia pushed away her wine cup. 'Two of your companions have been brutally murdered in this city. Petilius in his chamber, Lucius in an alleyway. The slums of Rome are full of men and women who take a life as easily as they would snuff out an oil-wick. However, both your companions were killed in the Pictish way, a knife to the belly, throat slit, then their genitals cut off, the penis placed in the dead man's hand. I understand the Picts do the same to dishonour enemy dead.'

All three men, eyes on Claudia, nodded. Crispus muttered a curse under his breath; Claudia ignored it.

'So why,' she continued, 'have two of your companions been killed in such a barbaric fashion? The logical conclusion is that it has something to do with your service in the Fretenses along the Great Wall. Some demon from the past has come prowling through the darkness to hunt you.'

Stathylus made a rude sound with his lips and quickly picked up his cup. Claudia could see he was frightened; the gesture was meant to divert her.

'Something else.' Claudia tapped the tabletop. 'General Aurelian recently invited you all to a reunion at his villa. You attended?'

'Of course we did.' Secundus spoke up. 'General Aurelian always favoured his men; this year it was our turn.'

'Yet afterwards, Petilius went to see the General about something urgent but the General was too busy to grant him an audience. Do you know what Petilius wanted?'

'We asked that ourselves,' Stathylus replied, 'but Petilius kept a close mouth; he was always like that. Perhaps he wanted to keep the information to himself so as to get some reward; we never found out.'

'But it followed that reunion,' Claudia insisted. 'Did any of you see anything untoward, something from the past?'

A chorus of denials greeted her words.

'Anyway,' she sighed, 'let's go back to the past, the Great Wall. The destruction of that Pictish war band.'

'Some eighteen years ago,' Secundus declared, ignoring Stathylus' warning look. 'It happened eighteen years ago.'

'And yet,' Claudia insisted, 'all this time later, two of your companions have been brutally murdered, in a manner very similar to the abuse perpetrated by your Pictish enemies. Now,' she smiled faintly, 'there are no Pictish warriors in Rome. Why such deaths? True, they might be Pictish slaves, but,' she shrugged, 'how would they recognise you eighteen years later? Moreover, doesn't the report say the entire war band you trapped was wiped out?'

Again there was agreement.

'The ambush also took place at night,' Murranus declared. 'I've seen Catephracti, their helmets are like those I wear in the arena, covering the head and protecting the face; even if one of those Picts did escape, how could they recognise a face, only glimpsed in the dark, some eighteen years later?'

'What did happen,' Claudia asked, 'that night of your great victory?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I can't really answer that,' Claudia replied, 'except I have a feeling that you don't want to talk about it. I can't understand that. After all, it was a great achievement. More importantly, the grisly murder of your comrades, executed in a way so reminiscent of the Picts, may have something to do with the massacre of so many of their people. A matter of logic,' Claudia added, 'unless there is something else you haven't told me.'

All three refused to meet her gaze.

'Ah well.' Stathylus rubbed a hand across his face. 'I'll tell you.' He filled his wine goblet, gulped greedily from it and slammed it back on the table.

'In the winter of our ninth year of service, eighteen years ago last July, the Fretenses, an ala of cavalry attached to the Second Legion Augusta, were guarding a mile fort along the Great Wall. There were only twelve or fifteen of us, under our officer, Postulus, a Gaul from Lyon. We were skilled fighters, a crack mounted force, but we were virtually leaderless. Civil war raged in Britain.' Stathylus raised a hand. 'This pretender, that pretender. The wall was stripped of men,– cohorts and units greatly reduced. At one mile fort there were only three men left; we were the lucky ones. Now we learned that a Pictish war band was on the move, heading south to probe our weakness. Postulus? Well,' Stathylus shrugged, 'he liked to drink…'

'So you were left in charge.'

'Yes.' Stathylus nodded. 'I hate Picts, I always have, cruel bastards, sly and treacherous. By then Postulus was totally inebriated. Anyway, I was in charge, and I thought of a plan. We rode out searching for that band and killed a few.'

'To provoke the blood feud?' Murranus asked. 'To draw them further south? I've heard of that being done.'

'Precisely/ Stathylus agreed. 'Once we had their attention, we retreated back to our mile fort. The Picts followed us south and launched an attack; it failed. Shortly afterwards Postulus died from his drinking.' He grinned sourly. 'In official dispatches, he was classed as killed in action, but that was simply to honour his name. We didn't have time to dress his corpse so we left it there, abandoning the mile fort.'

Stathylus paused to drink; his two companions had turned slightly away from Claudia as if they didn't want her to study their faces. She was sure a lie was being told, just by their posture. Stathylus, more absorbed with his wine, was now back in time at that lonely fort along the Great Wall.

'We left the beacon burning; we even left the pay chest in the cellar. We'd also secured the northern door so it couldn't be opened from the inside. We then pretended to retreat through the southern gate of the fort. The land beyond dropped. At night we sheltered around a fire in the lea of a hill and waited. The Picts found the fort deserted except for the pay chest and jars of posca.' Stathylus shrugged. 'You know what that's like, horse piss and just as strong. They drank and, being hungry for more booty, poured out of the southern gate. I thought they would. We waited until they were out in the open, disorganised and separated, then we charged. The weather had been dry, so we fired the bracken. We could see them clearly and rode them down. There was only one way for the Picts to retreat and that was back through the fort. They did that, hoping to escape through the northern gate, but we'd locked it fast.' He spread his hands. 'We cut many of them down and pinned the rest, together with their leader, within the fort.'

'It was so easy' Secundus spoke up quickly. 'We were mounted archers, there was no escape.'

'No prisoners?' Claudia asked. She stared at them curiously. Their answers were so quick, they reminded her of actors delivering well-rehearsed lines, words tripping off the tongue, though to be fair, this must have been a story told time and time again. 'No prisoners at all?' she repeated.

'That's what war along the frontier was like.' Stathylus got to his feet. 'Life for life and a fight to the death.' He scratched his stomach. 'I've drunk a lot,' he muttered. 'I've got to go out for a while.' He stumbled to the door.

Secundus whispered something about getting extra food and left, stomping down the stairs. Claudia turned to Murranus and winked. Crispus seemed to be absorbed, busy tying a thong on his sandal; she raised a finger to her lips for Murranus to remain silent. Crispus was definitely uncomfortable. He straightened up, playing with the wine cup on the table, then began to hum a tune beneath his breath. He kept looking longingly at the door. Eventually the silence proved too much, and he flung a hand out.

'You don't believe us, do you?'

'I do believe you,' Claudia conceded. 'I think you are telling the truth, but not all of it. Something happened along that wall, something that has come back to haunt you all, but why now, eighteen years later?'

She studied Crispus carefully. He was younger than the rest, and she noticed the small bead of sweat running down from beneath his close-cropped hair.

'What are you frightened of, Crispus?'

'The past,' he mumbled, and stared up at the smoke-blackened ceiling. 'Always the past! You don't know what it was like out there, desolate, empty, nothing but the grass bending under the wind, the lonely call of birds, the cry of animals at night and, when the civil war raged in the south, the wall being stripped. We had this nightmare, or at least I did, that the Picts would stream across the wall and surround us, cut us off, take us prisoner. If we fell into their hands…' He stared at them and blinked. 'If you fell into the hands of the Picts, they'd take weeks over killing you. I've seen their work: men nailed to trees, prisoners slowly tortured…' He wetted his lips, turning his head as if straining for a sound, then muttered something.

'What was that?' Murranus asked. He got to his feet, went closer to the veteran and sat down. 'What is it, Crispus? I have not been a soldier but I know what it's like to fight, to be wounded. What is it you're hiding?'

Crispus opened his mouth to reply but shut it when he heard a sound on the stairs.

'You can't answer, can you?' Claudia asked.

Crispus closed his eyes and shook his head.

'I daren't,' he whispered. 'It had nothing to do with me.'

'You were at General Aurelian's party,' Claudia continued. 'What happened?'

Crispus, relieved at the change in questioning, shrugged and swallowed hard.

'You know the General, or perhaps you don't,' he replied. 'Generous, a great man, a good leader, he looked after his troops. Well, over the years he invited all those who'd served with him to a banquet in his garden. They were marvellous occasions, beautiful lanterns hanging from the trees, serving girls, ladies of the night, musicians, actors, tumblers. This year it was our turn. None of us wanted to miss such an exciting evening. We gathered just before dusk and the celebrations went on well into the next day. The General is a hospitable man; those who wanted to could sleep in the gardens, and when they woke up to quench their thirst, there was more food and wine.'

'Did you see anyone,' Claudia persisted, 'or anything which reminded you of the past?'

Crispus closed his eyes, thinking hard.

'Anything at all,' Murranus insisted. 'Anything untoward.'

Crispus opened his eyes. 'I swear,' he pointed to the Lares on the table, 'I swear by that. I saw nothing, I heard nothing.'

'And the rest?' Murranus asked. 'Stathylus, Lucius, Petilius, Secundus?'

'Petilius may have.' Crispus paused to recollect his thoughts. Tm not too sure what he wanted to see General Aurelian about. We presumed it was something that happened at the party, because it was only after he saw him that he began his petitioning. It could have been something else. As for the rest of us,' he shook his head, 'nothing untoward was noticed, nothing at all.'

'Nothing what?'

Claudia looked round. Secundus, a platter of bread and cheese in one hand, his other resting against the doorpost, was staring threateningly across.

'What's going on here?' Secundus strolled across and slammed the platter down on to the table. 'If you've got any questions, wait for our officer to return.'

Murranus got to his feet and squared up to him.

'Do you want to die, Secundus?' he asked quietly. The veteran blinked. 'Do you want to die?' Murranus pushed his face closer. 'Because I'll tell you this, someone in Rome is killing former members of your cavalry troop. Your friends are dying in a barbaric way. How do you know you won't be next? I don't think we've been told the truth.' He gestured at Claudia. 'She is the Empress' representative. If you want, we will invite you back to the palace and we can continue our conversation there.'

'We've done nothing wrong!' Secundus blustered. 'You can't arrest us.'

Murranus seized the man's face between his hands. Secundus had the sense not to resist. 'Listen, you fool,' Murranus whispered hoarsely, 'we are not arresting you, only trying to protect you.'

'Where's Stathylus?' Crispus half rose. 'I thought he'd gone out to relieve himself. He should be back by now.'

Murranus took away his hands. Secundus walked to the table, drew the dagger from his waistband, cut himself a piece of bread and cheese and started chewing noisily. Claudia was about to return to her questioning when she heard a cry from below. She hurried to the door and stared down the wooden stairs. The tavern-keeper stood listening to a grimy-faced maid who was hysterically pointing to the half-open door. Claudia hastened down, followed by Murranus and the rest. The girl, gibbering with fright, led them out of the tavern and down to a small alleyway, a needle-thin passageway running between the houses. The tavern-keeper carried a lantern. At first Claudia thought the girl was pointing to a bundle of rubbish, old clothes -until the tavern-keeper placed the lantern on the ground. The light within strengthened, and the tavern-keeper swung away, one hand to his mouth.

Claudia slowly approached. She lifted the lantern and peered down. Stathylus lay wedged almost in the corner of the wall and the dirty rutted trackway, head tilted, his throat like a bloody gaping mouth, a terrible gash along his belly, his right hand thrown back holding what looked liked a piece of severed bloody meat. Claudia felt her gorge rise and hastily retreated. She leaned against the wall trying to control her stomach, half listening to the others' exclamations, the girl still whimpering, the tavern-keeper retching.

It was Murranus who imposed order. He returned to the tavern and came back carrying a large piece of sacking, shouting at Secundus and Crispus to help. Stathylus was lifted on to the piece of sacking, which was wrapped tightly about him, and taken across the tavern yard to an outhouse, where he was placed on an old trestle table. Lamps were brought. Claudia went out with the rest to study the corpse, but it was too much, the look of terror on Stathylus' face, those awful wounds to the throat and the belly, the great bloody mess between his legs. She could take no more and, hand to her mouth, hastened back to the tavern and its upper room. She sat for a while shivering. The lights before the Lares were now burning low; one was guttering. She stared at that bronze statue, the sinister helmeted figure, cloak billowing around the rearing horse.

'Now,' she muttered to herself, 'now they'll believe me.'