'I suppose the respective financial benefits have been carefully worked out by generations of palace actuaries?'Justinus still sounded sharp.
I grinned. 'The dear tribes can decide for themselves whether they choose a javelin in the ribs and having their women raped, or cartloads of wine, some nice second-hand diadems and a delegation of elderly prostitutes from Artemisia setting up shop at the tribal capital.'
'All in the name of progress and culture!' Justinus groused dryly.
'The Atrebates do see themselves as progressive, so they took the loot.'
'Vespasian is not a sentimentalist,' Helena concluded, 'but he must remember Togidubnus from the special time of his own youth. Now they are both elderly, and old men grow nostalgic. Just wait- all three of you. I hope I'm there to see you all talking about the good old days!'
I hoped she would be. I nearly said that when one day I started mithering and dreaming, the last thing I would want was a dank, frescoed house in Britain. Still, you never know!
Justinus had captured the plan of the King's great new house. He was staring at it with all the envy of a newly married man who was lodged at home with his parents. Jealousy gave way to a more distant look in his dark eyes. Being a cynic, I did not believe our sentimental hero was nostalgic for his Baetican bride of barely a few months, Claudia Rufma.
Claudia had not accompanied us on this trip. She was a game girl, but she had been led to believe Justinus would be returning to Rome. He must have persuaded her to wait behind. I watched him thoughtfully. In some ways I knew him better than his family or friends; I had travelled with Quintus Camillus Justinus on a dangerous mission among barbarian tribes before. I had a fair idea that when he grew nostalgic, there was an unreachable, idealised beauty filling his mind. We would find golden-haired women in Britain who looked like the woman in Germany who still featured in his dreams.
Aelianus, being a bachelor, had the right to enjoy all the amenities of travel, including romantic ones. Instead, he had appointed himself the man of sense who ran our show. So now he was staring in amazement at the mansio landlord's enormous bill.
Helena went upstairs to feed the baby and settle Julia. We were a large enough group to commandeer ourselves a whole dormitory most nights. I preferred to keep my party together, and to exclude mad-eyed thieving strangers. The women accepted shared accommodation calmly, though the boys had been shocked at first. Privacy is not a Roman necessity; our room only needed to be cheap and convenient. We all just fell on our hard narrow beds in our clothes and slept like logs. Hyspale snored. She would.
I stayed behind with a wine flagon now, keeping an eye on Maia. She was talking to a man. I'm no Roman paterna list She was free to converse. But a woman who distances herself from the party she travels with can be seen by strangers as up for anything. In fact Maia was waiting in tense fury for her nightmare removal from Rome to be over; she seemed so introverted and hostile that people hardly ever bothered her. But she was attractive, seated slightly apart at the end of our bench, a well-rounded piece with dark curly hair in a braided crimson dress. She did have clothes and necessities with her; a packed trunk had been 'discovered' on-board ship and we kept up a pretence that her children had arranged it.
This dress was obviously new paid for by Pa, who had replenished her wardrobe after Anacrites destroyed everything. Anyone who judged on appearances might think Maia had money.
If Maia acquired a follower, I would not intervene. I was not stupid. Mind you, I would find out exactly who he was, before it went too far.
My back was stiff. I had an old broken rib that played up after hard days in cramped transport. My head was spinning slightly, confused by hours of relentless motion on the road. Half my party had blocked bowels and headaches; the rest were stricken with diarrhoea. Tonight, as I moved awkwardly trying to ease my back, I could not decide which stage my internal works were at. When you're travelling you need to know. You have to plan ahead.
The conversation with my sister looked casual. The man was a lone traveller, dressed serviceably, in trade by the looks of it. He had half eaten bread on the table in front of him and was working his way down a tall face-pot, containing beer probably. He did not offer anything to Maia.
While he made the running, Maia's response was aloof. The fellow should be glad she was just about pleasant. He spoke diffidently, looking as if he was unsure what to make of her. Talking to him was a gesture of defiance on her part, I knew. I had told everyone to avoid chatting with fellow-travellers but Maia liked rejecting good advice. Flouting her head of household came naturally, and she was setting herself apart from those of us she viewed as kidnappers. On this trip, one wrong move by me and she would become uncontrollable.
Eventually the man went out to brave the cold water in the bath house; Maia departed upstairs without a word. I sat on quietly for a while then followed her.
Next day we saw the stranger, struggling to edge a cartload of large, well-wrapped items out through the mansio gates. Maia mentioned that he was some travelling salesman, with the same destination as us. She said his name was Sextius. I told the lads to help Sextius push his vehicle onto the road. Then I tipped them the nod that one of them had to make friends.
'Aulus, you need some adventure in your life…'
When we finally arrived across the Gallic Strait in Noviomagus, I was down to one official assistant. Aelianus had become the rather grumpy sidekick of a man who hoped to interest the Great King in mechanical statues. One day, if he ever turned into a chubby landowner with villas at Lake Volusena and Surrentum, our dear Aulus could purchase his own curiosities in the safe knowledge that he knew how to oil a set of moving doves so they pecked up model corn from a golden dish. I told him to enjoy the disguise and he told me which obnoxious fate he would like to impose on me.
All I had to do now was fix up Justinus as an ornamental fishpond fanatic, and we should be able to creep up on Gloccus and Cotta from three sides. That is, assuming they were there.
BRITAIN: NOVIOMAGUS REGNENSIS
High Summer (for what that's worth!)
destination. Day one. An absolutely enormous building site, right on the southern coast.
The clerk of works was busy. But as I waited, he had glanced at me, and I reckoned he would be polite. They usually are. Conciliation is their business; anyone who can stop the hot-headed plumbers tearing the damn fool architect to pieces when he makes them redirect an inlet pipe yet again (but refuses to pay for it) can deal with an unwanted site visitor.
I had already witnessed a pomposity who must be the architect, sneering at a stonemason unpleasantly. That was no surprise.
I had not been allowed anywhere near the plumbers. Still, that would change. Every trade on this site was on my list to be investigated. Not many trades were contributing yet. The 'site' so far only seemed to consist of a vast levelling project.
I had ridden out by mule from Noviomagus that morning. I still felt queasy from the sea crossing. After a mile on a wide shoreline road that obviously led somewhere, I fetched up in dismay at this vast muddy scene.
It was not the kind of venue where a big-city informer likes to operate. The future palace was sited in a low- lying coastal nook between the marshes and the sea. To my left as I rode up lay the harbour approach- a lagoon of sorts where dredgers were languidly messing about in what I knew was intended to become a deep channel. Swans went about their business, unperturbed. On arrival, my road had crossed a bridge over a stream, newly canalised to control it, then petered out into a bald new service track that would run around the extended palace. To my right, just before the bridge, stood some old, military-style buildings. The new palace would stand on an enormous platform which was in the process of being raised to create a firm, drained base. It rose almost as high as me, five feet above the wiry bog plants at the natural ground level.
The torn-up landscape made a desolate scene. Peewits and frantic skylarks vied with the sounds of stone chipping from a depot area. Up ahead there were some existing structures- primarily a stone-built complex on the near side, at present shrouded in scaffolding. Beyond this suite, which must be the Great King's existing residence, the great platform was just a ghastly sea of mud.
