Rosemary Rowe - A Whispering of Spies

Brianus, who had almost stopped shivering by now and had been watching us wide-eyed, began to make a protest but I waved his words aside.

‘Brianus, I give the orders in this house, and I am instructing you to have a drink and half an oatcake. Is that understood? I don’t want you fainting with cold and hunger in the town when you are carrying my confidential correspondence through the streets — anyone might get their hands on it. Now do as you are told while I compose this note.’

It was the second time that I had spoken sharply and Minimus looked abashed. I do not often speak so brusquely to slaves, and he looked chagrined as he went about his tasks. I’ve never had a meal served to me with more promptitude and I was soon clutching a warm and welcome cup of mead. I took a sip of it. ‘The boy will be embarrassed to eat in here with me — which is no more than proper, since I’m the master here — so Minimus, you can show him into the outer room.’

Brianus stammered, blushing. ‘Citizen pavement-maker, you are very good. .’

I held a hand up to prevent him saying any more. ‘On second thoughts, Minimus, you’d better stay with him — make sure he doesn’t take fright and run away.’

Minimus looked astonished but he said nothing more. He did as he was told and hustled Brianus away, round the partition, with his humble snack.

Junio had been working in silence all this time but when the slaves had gone he scrambled to his feet and came to stand beside me. ‘You guessed that the slave-boy would decline to eat unless you actually commanded him?’ he murmured, too softly for the lads in the outer room to hear.

I nodded, my mouth too full of oatcake to reply. But it was true. I’d had the same problem with my wife when we were first reunited after years apart — she had been so long in servitude that she was unwilling to eat anything in my presence. Of course she always shared my table now, and very often the slave-boys ate in the same room as well, especially in the shop. I took a sip of mead. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I want to gain his confidence. Bringing him to the workshop was only an excuse. I want to find out what — if anything — he knows about his master, Voluus.’

‘You did not succeed in discovering anything while you were at the apartment?’

‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘there is alarming news. But not exactly what I set out to learn.’ I told him briefly about the missing cart and what I had learned about the lictor’s wealthy bride.

Junio whistled softly. ‘Dear Jupiter! A murdered escort and a robbery. There’s certain to be a lot of trouble, then. I hope it didn’t happen anywhere near us. I would not care to be a suspect with a lictor in the case and no doubt suspicion will fall on everyone within a dozen miles.’

I hadn’t thought of that — it was not a pleasant idea. ‘I’m going to see Marcus later on tonight and I’ll ask him to get the local garrison to look into it and try to find out who was responsible. It may have been just brigands who struck a lucky cart — but there hasn’t been any banditry on that road for several moons, and I find it difficult to credit that it was merely chance.’

Junio frowned. ‘More likely someone who knew the value of what was on the cart. Could it be the steward, do you think?’

‘I didn’t think so, from his manner. He seemed really shocked, though it had clearly occurred to him he might be held to blame. And now he’s just had word that his master is only days away.’

‘Dear Mercury! I should not care to be the steward, in that case. Or is this Voluus not the savage man that we are inclined to think?’

‘It seems he’s even worse.’ I told him the story of the tortured page. ‘But that’s one of the things I wanted to check with Brianus. And the two of them have met. I understand the lictor personally bought him at the slave-market.’

Junio grinned. ‘Well, if you meant to gain the slave-boy’s confidence, you’ve certainly done that. I rather suspect he’d walk on burning coals for you. You should have seen him eyeing that little piece of cake. You’d think he hadn’t seen a proper meal in days.’

‘It’s possible he hasn’t,’ I said soberly. ‘I think the steward at the house mistreats him dreadfully — though there can’t be any shortage of nutrition in the house.’

My adopted son gave my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Not everyone has masters as kindly as my own.’

That was an unexpected compliment — he had been my servant before I set him free — but it was not the sort of thing he often said. The moment might have been embarrassing, but he turned away and began to search for something on the shelf. ‘You will want that pot of sealing-wax. I know I’ve seen it here. You had it when you were sealing that bill for the councillor the other day. Ah, here it is.’ He brought down the little jar and bent down to set it on the trivet by the fire, where it would soften in the heat.

I had eaten every crumb of cake by now so I turned my attention to the writing-block. I did not often use a folding wax-tablet of this kind — most of our calculations are simply chalked on slates — but I had used such things before. I opened it out flat. The wax had melted slightly, as I’d hoped it would, and though it was badly crazed it was just usable. I smoothed out the surface as best I could, erasing the words that had been scratched on it before and, picking up the stylus, inscribed a message of my own.

Junio was still standing at my shoulder as I wrote and he read the words aloud. ‘“I have received your urgent message and will report developments to my patron as soon as possible. I have chosen not to send a verbal message with your slave, because I am not certain how much he should know, but I will call on you again tomorrow and let you know what Marcus says.”’

He grinned. ‘That is clever, father. Giving a reason why you had to send a written note, though in fact you just wanted to get the boy in here. I know your little ways.’

‘As I said, I want to find out what he knows.’

‘Nothing to do with feeling sorry for the lad?’

I made a mock-rueful face. ‘I’m sorry that my motives are so obvious.’

‘All the same, what makes you think he’ll talk to you, however much he wants to please? You can see that he’s been trained in the old-fashioned Roman way: where a slave should never speak until he is spoken to, and preferably not then. He’ll be far too shy and awestruck to tell you anything.’

It was my turn to grin. ‘Why do you think I sent him off with Minimus?’ I gestured with my head towards the outer room from where a murmuring of voices could be heard. ‘A slave will often prattle to a slave. That’s what I’m hoping for. But enough of that — I think they’re coming now.’

Junio nodded and went back to his work, while Minimus ushered our visitor back into the room. A little food and warmth had clearly done Brianus good — there was a touch more colour in the sallow cheeks and he seemed a lot less nervous than he was before, although he still hung back against the wall.

I did not confuse him by addressing him direct, but busied myself with tying the cords around the writing-block and securing them with a little dab of heated wax. I don’t have a fancy seal-ring, like patricians do, but I do possess a seal — a piece of wood with a raised iron pattern set into the end. I gestured to Brianus that he should pass me that, and — rather shyly — he stepped up to comply, while I winked at Minimus, who was sulking slightly at being overlooked.

I took the seal and pressed it on the wax across the knotted cords, so that the writing-block was securely closed despite the faulty hinge, then chalked the word ‘Calvinus’ on the outside of the frame. ‘It is not elegant, but it will have to do,’ I said. I looked up to find Voluus’s slave-boy gazing at me as though I were some sort of conjurer. It occurred to me that writing might be a mystery to him: not every slave-boy in Roman households learns to read. ‘Here you are!’ I held it out to him. ‘Make sure the steward gets it as soon as possible. Now take your cloak — I think it is a little drier now — and my slave will show you to the door.’