'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.'
Chapter 4
Hoc volo, sic iubeo: sit pro ratione voluntas.
I will do this deed, so I order it done. Let my will stand for my reason.
Claudia hastily refilled her goblet of wine and drank it a little faster than she'd intended, half listening to the sounds from downstairs. She peered at the statue and recalled Murranus' question at the Temple of Hathor. If the truth be known, she believed in no religion. She could accept there might be a God, but all this bloodshed and horrid death, the sheer cheapness and brutality of life, how could Presbyter Sylvester explain all that? Noises on the stairs alerted her. Murranus, Secundus and Crispus came into the chamber, followed by the tavern-keeper bringing what he said was his best wine, along with four clean cups. He put the tray down and hastily retreated. Murranus filled the cups and raised his in the direction of the Lares.
'May his God look after him,' he toasted. 'May Stathylus be brought to a place of light. He deserved a better death.' He drank and refilled his goblet.
Claudia stared at the two veterans, men who had now had the fight knocked out of them. They seemed to have aged in such a short while; their unshaven faces had paled, cheeks almost sunken, their eyes held the haunted look of beaten slaves.
'So quickly!' Crispus murmured. 'He went out for a piss, that's all he did!'
Claudia, her stomach now settled, told Murranus and the others to wait and went downstairs. The tavern- keeper gave her his lantern and she returned to the alleyway and the place where Stathylus had died. She placed the lantern on the ground and searched carefully, gingerly picking her way around the congealing blood. She stared down the alleyway and glimpsed pinpricks of light beyond. In the end she could find nothing, so, picking up the lantern, she returned to the tavern, washed her hands in a vat of water just beneath the stairs and went up to join the rest. Crispus and Secundus were now drinking as if facing their own deaths.
'How could it happen?' she asked. 'Crispus, you're a soldier, a veteran, — whoever killed Stathylus must have got very close and taken him by surprise. Another man, a boy?'
Crispus shook his head. 'Who then?' Claudia asked. 'A woman?' 'Of course,' Secundus slurred. 'Stathylus is like the rest of us. Our wives are dead, or back in Britain; any woman who offers herself would be taken. Stathylus had been drinking, he wouldn't remember, he wouldn't realise the danger until it was too late.'
Claudia leaned against the table, staring down at the food and wine stains. She tried to visualise what had happened. Stathylus had staggered out of the tavern wishing to relieve himself; he'd gone up that alleyway. Someone had known he'd be here tonight. Someone was waiting. It didn't matter who came out; in the eyes of their killer, the fate of these veterans was already sealed. Stathylus was an old soldier, a man who lived by himself, apparently; with a belly full of wine, he wouldn't realise the danger. Some pretty whore comes tripping along, drawing close; she stabs him with a quick thrust to the stomach. The shock alone would paralyse Stathylus, then the rest. Claudia lifted her head.
'Are you going to tell us,' she asked, 'what you have omitted, something very important, from your story? If you want to live, you'll have to tell us, and tell us now.'
Secundus tried to stop him but Crispus, wide-eyed with fear, struck away his companion's warning hand. 'I'll tell you,' he declared. 'Stathylus' story was true, but there was a great deal missed out. We were on the wall under Postulus. No, no, shut up, Secundus, do you want to die like a pig in an alleyway?'
Secundus let his hands fall away and sat, head down.
'As I said,' Crispus' voice grew strong, his tone bitter, 'in the beginning it was a good life. Postulus was a fine officer; he liked his wine but he cared for us. Then we were dispatched to that mile fort. I hated it! A haunted place! The skies seemed to press down on you, and either side of the wall there was really nothing but gorse, bramble and long grass. There was fighting in the south between the different pretenders, units were leaving, but we decided to stay, it was safer. Anyway, there was bad blood between Postulus and Stathylus, they hated each other. Postulus was of the old school, a little bit of a snob; he thought he should be in charge of more men but, of course, cohorts, units, even legions had been drastically reduced. Nevertheless, he was competent enough, and he made sure we were paid, fed and well protected. We heard rumours of Pictish war bands prowling in the area so we decided to go out and reconnoitre. With Postulus there must have been,' he pulled a face, 'about fifteen or sixteen
