Simon Scarrow - The Blood Crows

‘Nothing we can do about it.’

‘Oh yes there is!’ Macro grinned. ‘You heard the man; there’s all the delights of Londinium awaiting us.’ His expression became a little anxious. ‘Just as long as you don’t let on to my mother, eh?’

‘Well, boys, what do you think of this place?’ Portia asked as they took a table close to the inn’s fireplace. It was the evening of their third day in Londinium and she was accompanied by her son and Cato. Just for a change it was raining again, a steady downpour angled by a stiff breeze that lashed the streets of Londinium, pattered off the few tiled buildings and ran off the thatched roofs of the rest. The inn had once been a large barn before it had been extended with outbuildings that formed a modest courtyard in front of the entrance. A gate opened out on to a wide street that stretched from the quay on the Tamesis up to the site of the basilica complex. Despite the weather the street was busy and the rattle of cartwheels and the braying of mules could be clearly heard over the hiss of the rain.

Macro drew back the hood of his military cape and ran a quick glance over his surroundings. The inn was warm and dry and the floor was paved and liberally covered with straw to absorb the filth on the boots and sandals of those coming in from the street. There was a bar counter to one side, inset with large jars to hold the stew and heated wine that was served to customers. Several long tables with benches on either side filled most of the open space. Despite all the renovations, there was still a faint tang of horse sweat in the air, but Macro did not mind. There were worse odours.

‘Nice enough,’ he conceded. ‘Compared to most in this town.’

Cato nodded. While waiting for the order to join Ostorius and his staff on the ride to the meeting with the tribal leaders they had spent the time in the inns recommended by Decimus. There was little else of note to see. Despite her earlier misgivings about the discharged legionary, Portia had found his guidance useful as she inspected a number of inns and subtly sounded out their owners to discover who might be willing to sell their business to her.

Cato gestured to a serving girl behind the bar and she hurried over to take their order. She was young, barely into her teens, and was dumpy with a poor complexion but at least she spoke reasonable Latin.

‘Jar of wine for the three of us. What’s in the stew today?’

She shrugged. ‘Same as every day. Barley and onion gruel.’

Cato forced a smile. ‘Sounds fine. Three bowls then, with bread. I take it that’s fresh?’

‘Baked just the other day, sir. Fresh enough.’

Without waiting for further comment she turned and hurried back towards the counter to prepare a tray for their order.

‘Nice enough?’ Portia said flatly as she stared at her son. ‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Macro growled. ‘It’s an inn, like any other.’

‘No, as it happens.’ She wagged a finger. ‘This is the one I want to buy. Thanks to Decimus, I learned that the owner is a veteran of the Second Legion who has had enough of Britannia and is selling up to return to Rome. I’ve made an offer and he’s accepted.’

Macro took another, longer look round the premises. ‘Why this one?’

Portia swiftly marshalled her arguments and counted them off on her fingers as she replied. ‘Firstly, the location. Plenty of passing customers and a lot of them work at the governor’s headquarters so they can afford to pay more for their wine and food. Second, there’s eight rooms in the courtyard that are already rented to travellers. I can have more accommodation added to the rear. As the province is settled, this town is bound to grow in size and there’s a small fortune to be made from those passing through Londinium. And third, there’s some small storerooms on the opposite side of the courtyard that we could rent out to the prostitutes’ guild. An extra service that some of the customers would welcome, I’m sure. There’s plenty of potential here and the price is very fair.’ She paused. ‘There’s only one snag. What’s left of the money I got from selling my place in Ariminum is not going to cover what I offered.’

Macro cradled his head in his hands and groaned softly. ‘I can see where this is going, Mother. You want me to give you the rest from my savings.’

‘Not give, as such. Think of it as a loan or, better still, a sound investment. I can cover half the cost. You pay for the rest and I’ll make you a sleeping partner, and you can take four-tenths of the profits,’ she added quickly.

Macro looked up sharply. ‘Four-tenths? Why not half?’

‘Because I’ll be doing all the hard work. Four-tenths. That’s my final offer.’

Cato sat quite still, watching the exchange and somewhat in awe of Portia’s sound business sense and ruthless approach to getting her way. It was clear which of those qualities Macro had inherited in abundance.

‘Wait a moment!’ Macro held up his hands. ‘What if I decide I don’t want to lend you the money?’

Portia folded her slender hands together and pouted slightly. ‘Would you really do such a thing to your mother? Force me to buy some grotty little chop house, which is all I could afford without your help. Work myself to the bone for a pittance and then die old and alone?’

‘For fuck’s sake, you know it won’t come to that!’ Macro said crossly. ‘I’ll see to it that you’re taken care of. It’s the least I owe you.’

‘Quite.’ She nodded. ‘So?’

Macro breathed in deeply and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Very well. How much do you need?’

‘Five thousand denarii. That’s all.’

Macro’s jaw sagged. ‘Five thousand! That’s. . that’s. .’ His brow creased in concentration. ‘Several years’ pay.’

‘You can easily afford it.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I had a little look in that chest of yours that you keep at the bottom of your kitbag.’

‘But it’s locked.’

She gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I spent fifteen years working in a bar in Ariminum, my boy. There are many useful tips and skills I picked up from my customers. Lock-picking is the least of them. The more interesting point is how a centurion managed to come by such a large fortune.’

Macro exchanged a quick glance with Cato and both men felt a tremor of anxiety trace its way down their spines. When they had been in Rome they had helped to unmask a conspiracy in the ranks of the Praetorian Guard. The silver was part of a convoy of bullion that the conspirators had stolen from the Emperor, and was still unaccounted for as far as the imperial palace was concerned. Cato had argued that it should be handed back but Macro had fervently insisted that they had earned the silver and refused. So they had split the proceeds. Cato had left his share with a banker in Rome while Macro, who regarded bankers as corrupt parasites, changed the silver into gold coins to make his fortune more portable and kept it in his possession. His little secret, until now. He looked round hurriedly in case anyone had overheard his mother’s remark. Then he turned back to her.

‘All right then. Five thousand. For a half share of the profits.’

‘Four-tenths, I said.’

‘Split the difference,’ Macro said desperately.

‘Four-tenths.’

He gritted his teeth and glared at her before he eventually nodded. ‘Shit. I give in. But keep your hands off my things from now on.’

His mother smiled sweetly and patted his cheek. ‘I knew you’d see sense. And you’ll do very nicely out of it in due course, I promise you.’

Macro wondered about that. His mother, like most small business owners, was as adept at cooking the books as she was at cooking cheap meals for her customers. Still, at least Portia would have the means to make an independent living and that suited Macro, who would rather not have to worry about her when he marched off to fight the enemy. In any case, if she was right then he would earn a tidy profit from his investment.