David Wishart: No Cause for Concern

‘The Luscian bunch?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘You don’t want Sutrium then. Theatre’s closed for repairs.’

Bugger! ‘Is that so, now?’

‘They had a fire last month, took out the stage and most of the scenery. Or so I’m told. I haven’t been that far myself.’

Hell. ‘You any idea where I’d find them, then?’

‘That’s no problem at all, sir. We’re the next stop on their route. Play’s advertised for tomorrow afternoon.’

Oh, glory. If Luscius was due tomorrow then I’d timed things perfectly and saved myself a couple of painful days in the saddle. Thank you, Mercury, patron of travellers.

The landlord’s wife appeared with a bowl of stew and a quarter-loaf and set them down at the end of the long table. I thanked her, topped up my winecup and took it and the jug over. The stew was excellent, and the bread was fresh out of the oven. Not too high a grit content from the millstone, either: with cookshop bread you need to watch where you’re putting your teeth or you find yourself with fewer than you started with. Taken together with the not-bad wine, three ticked boxes out of four and counting. Mercury was definitely working his winged socks off; I reckoned I’d landed lucky here. ‘You happen to know where they’ll be staying?’ I asked the landlord. ‘The actors, I mean.’

‘They camp out in the field next the theatre. You’ll’ve seen that outside the gates on your way in. ’Less the weather’s bad, when they use old Paquius’s barn. But they’ll be in the field this time for sure.’

‘They come every year? The same troupe?’

‘Aye, same ones. For the last twenty at least, to my certain knowledge. Same time, regular, just before the olive harvest.’ He poured himself a cup of wine then came over and sat opposite me. ‘Not always the same faces, mind, specially where the youngsters taking the female parts are concerned, but it’s always been the Luscians. And you can be sure of a good show, so there’s never any shortage of backers.’

That made sense. No one who’s angling for a town officer’s job would risk pissing off the voting punters by funding a dodgy production, particularly since – as it would – it’d represent a high spot in the local year. Entertainment opportunities in small towns like Bacanae may be thin on the ground, but where getting value for votes is concerned the locals tend to be pretty picky. Mind you, get yourself an established niche – as Luscius’s troupe seemed to’ve done – and you have it for life.

‘You know them at all?’ I asked.

‘Can’t say I do, not as such. They’ve been in here for a drink now and again, some of them, over the years. Just the evening of the play, though, because they move straight on. And they never make a night of it, either, because it means an early start in the morning.’ He was beginning to give me curious looks. ‘What’s your interest, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? Not in that line yourself, are you?’

‘No, I’m just doing a favour for an acquaintance. The widow of the last guy to head the troupe.’

‘Ah. Is that so, now. Carrying a message, then, would you be?’

That’s another thing about these small towns: a stranger’s an event in himself, to be milked for information and gossip. It isn’t nosiness as such, just another way of passing the time and putting a little much-needed sparkle into an otherwise humdrum life. Still, I didn’t mind, and I might even learn something.

‘No,’ I said. ‘The lady thought her son might be with them. She asked me to check, that’s all.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘Run off, has he?’ he said. ‘Aye, well, youngsters’re like that. My eldest did the same, ran off to Arretium without a word said and signed up for a legionary. He’s on the Rhine now and liable to stay there for the next twenty years if some bastard of a German doesn’t hack his stupid head off first. You can’t tell them at that age, can you? Still, if the lad’s with his uncle he’ll come to no harm.’

‘You didn’t hear of him, did you? Name’s Titus.’

‘No, sir, I’m sorry.’ He drained his cup and got to his feet. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Like I said, the troupe’s only through here once a year, and if the boy’s with them this time round you’ll just have to see for yourself tomorrow. Now, if you’ve finished your stew I’ll get the wife to show you a room and then if everything’s agreeable maybe I could point you towards the town baths. You’ll be wanting a bath badly if you’ve come all the way from Rome.’

I did, at that: sitting on the bench hadn’t been a good idea, and I was stiffening up nicely. A leisurely steam in the bath-house, followed by a stroll round the town, another half jug of Graviscan and an early night would suit me fine.

We’d see what tomorrow would bring.

It brought a bloody rooster, for a start. The thing went off just before dawn, right under my window, seven times, and at full volume. Obviously a bird who scored high on job satisfaction and made sure everybody knew it. Ah, the joys of country life. Maybe I should ask my landlady what the chances were of a boiled chicken dinner.

The bath the day before had done its best, but moving quickly was still not an option. I gritted my teeth, gradually levered my pain-shattered and board-stiff body off the mattress, and stood up slowly. Then there were the hazards of the chamber pot that the management had thoughtfully provided and the struggle with tunic and sandals. Finally, I inched my way to the door, through it, and downstairs. Bugger. I’d still got the return journey to Rome to look forward to. If I ever got the chance I’d slit Eutacticus’s throat with a rusty sawblade, and whistle while I did it.

There were half a dozen other punters round the kitchen table, tucking in to their hot porridge and – in one case – raw onion and bread. They gave me a nod and/or a grunt each as I crept to the end of the bench and sat down…

Or tried to. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. I got up again with what in my present condition was alacrity. Hell. Yeah, well, I’ve never been much of a breakfast person anyway.

The punter with the onion sniggered.

‘Porridge, sir?’ The lady of the house, coming through from the kitchen with the pot in her hands. ‘Or I could do you some eggs.’

So the rooster took the other part of his duties just as seriously. ‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll pass.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ I had, at that: the straw mattress had thankfully been free of bugs and fleas, I’d gone out like a light and woken – been woken – unbitten and without the frantic desire to scratch most of your skin off that tends to go with mornings in your average provincial-Italian inn. This place was definitely a find. ‘I think I’ll take an early walk. Freshen up a bit.’

‘As you like, sir.’

I went outside. The sun was up, just, and it looked like being a fine mid-October day. The woodsmoke from the kitchen stove drifted across the courtyard, adding a tang to the earth-and-greenery smell carried by the breeze from the fields outside the town walls. Nice. I’m no countryman, but mornings in the country can have their good points, too. You wouldn’t want to live there, mind.

I checked on the mare – she’d been comfortably housed, with plenty of clean straw and a full manger – and set off towards the centre of town. Not a long walk – you can see all that Bacanae has to offer inside a quarter of an hour and still have plenty of time to spare – but I needed to get my legs working again. I was planning on an easy morning: a shave at the barber’s booth in the square, followed by a bath. Afterwards, another leisurely stroll back to the inn, some more of the Graviscan, or maybe I’d try the Statonian for a change, and a plate of cheese and olives, then over to the theatre to see if Luscius and company had arrived. A quiet day, in other words. Well, I may as well treat this as a holiday. Like the landlord had said, if young Titus had run off to join his uncle then he was safe enough, and no problem of mine. I’d be very surprised if the truth was anything different and the kid didn’t send me away with a flea in my ear. Still, you had to go through the motions.