Wonder who he is?” The centurion nudged the corpse with the side of his boot—avoiding the tip, where he might have touched dead flesh with his big bare toes. “Who he was!” He laughed sardonically.
The dead man had been tall and well fed. The straggles of long hair that clung to his head and neck, tangling in the edges of his woolen tunic, were once wild and red-gold. The eyes, now closed, had been bright with curiosity and used to delight in dangerous mischief. I suppose they were blue, though I could not remember. His skin was pallid and swollen after drowning, but he had always been light-complexioned, with the gingery eyebrows and lashes that go with such coloring. Along his bare forearms, fine hairs began to dry. He wore dark blue trousers, expensive boots, a belt with hole-punched patterns into which the plaid tunic was gathered in thick clumps. No weapon was present. Every time I saw him alive, he had worn a long British sword.
He had been always on the go. He dashed around; was full of vigor and crude humor; always accosted me in a loud voice; regularly leered at women. It seemed odd to find him quite so still.
I stooped, picking up the cloth of a sleeve to inspect a hand for finger rings. One sturdy item in rope-twisted gold remained, perhaps too tight to drag off in a hurry. As I straightened, my glaze briefly caught that of Hilaris. Clearly he could see that I too knew the man’s identity. Well, if he thought about it, I had just come up from Noviomagus Regnensis, so I would.
“It is Verovolcus,” he told the centurion without drama. I kept quiet. “I met him officially once or twice. He was a courtier, and possibly a relative, of the Great King—Togidubnus of the Atrebates tribe, down on the south coast.”
“Important?” demanded the centurion with a half-eager sideways look. Hilaris did not answer. The soldier drew his own conclusions. He pulled a face, impressed.
King Togidubnus was a longtime friend and ally of Vespasian. He had been lavishly rewarded for years of support. In this province he could probably pull rank even on the governor. He could get Flavius Hilaris recalled to Rome and stripped of his hard-earned honors. He could have me knocked over the head and dumped into a ditch, with no questions asked.
“So what was Verovolcus doing in Londinium?” Hilaris mused. It seemed a general question, though I felt he aimed it at me.
“More official business?” asked the centurion meekly.
“No. I would know of it. And even if he came to Londinium for private purposes,” continued the procurator levelly, “why would he visit an establishment as grim as this?” He now glanced directly at me. “A British aristocrat laden with expensive jewels is as much at risk of robbery in a hole like this as a lone Roman would be. This place is for locals—and even they have to be brave!”
I refused to be drawn, but left the yard, ducked inside the bar, and looked around. As wine bars go this lacked charm and distinction. We had found it halfway down a short, narrow alley on the sloping hill just above the wharves. A few crude shelves held flagons. A couple of windows with iron grilles let in some light. From its filthy straw-strewn floor to its low shadowy rafters the bar was as lousy as bars can get. And I had seen some.
I tackled the woman who kept the place.
“I know nothing,” she spouted immediately, before I could ask her anything.
“Are you the owner?”
“No, I just wait at table.”
“Did you summon the centurion?”
“Of course!” There was no of course about it. I didn’t have to live in Britain to know that if she could have hidden this crime, she would have done so. Instead, she had worked out that Verovolcus was bound to be missed. There would be trouble, and unless she made it look good today, the trouble would be worse for her. “We found him this morning.”
“You never noticed him last night?”
“We were busy. Lot of trade in.”
I gazed at her calmly. “What sort of trade was that?”
“The sort we get.”
“Can you be more specific? I mean—”
“I know what you mean!” she scoffed.
“Sinful girls, after sailors and traders?” I threw at her anyway.
“Nice people. Businessmen!” Nasty forms of business, I bet.
“Had this man been drinking here last night?”
“Nobody can remember him, though he could have been.” They should remember. He must have been of a higher class than any regulars, even the nice businessmen. “We just found him left here with his feet waggling—”
“Excuse me! Why were his feet waggling? Was the poor sap still alive?”
She blushed. “Just a manner of speaking.”
“So was he dead or not?”
“He was dead. Of course he was.”
“How did you know?”
“What?”
“If only his feet were visible, how did anyone know his condition? Could you have revived him? You might at least have tried. I know you didn’t bother; the centurion had to pull him out.”
She looked thrown, but carried on gamely. “He was a goner. It was obvious.”
“Especially if you already knew that he was crammed down the well last evening.”
“I never! We were all surprised!”
“Not as surprised as he must have been,” I said.
There was nothing more to be gained here. We left the centurion to shift the body for safekeeping until the Great King was informed. Gaius and I emerged into the alley, which was used as an open drain. We picked our way past the daily rubbish and empties to what passed for a street. That was dingy enough. We were on terraced ground below the two low gravel hills on which Londinium stood. The area was right down near the river. In any city that can be bad news. The procurator’s two bodyguards followed us discreetly, frontline soldiers on detached duty, fingering daggers. They provided reassurance—partially.
From the badly cobbled lane that protected this enclave to larger, perhaps less unfriendly vicinities, we could hear the creak of cranes on the wharves that lined the Thamesis. There were pungent smells of leather, a staple trade. Some towns have regulations that tanneries have to be out in the country because they reek so badly, but Londinium was either not that fussy or not so well organized. Attracted by the river’s proximity, we walked there.
We came out among new warehouses with narrow fronts at the river’s edge, running back from their tight-packed unloading berths in long secure storage tunnels. The river embankment was fringed with these, as if it had been planned. A great wooden platform, of recent construction, provided a landing stage and a bulwark against the spreading tide.
I stared at the river gloomily. The Thamesis was much wider than the Tiber at home, its high-tide width more than a thousand strides, though at low water it shrank to a third of that. Opposite our wharf were reeded islands, which would become almost submerged at high tide, when for miles all up the estuary the Thamesis marshes would flood. Roads from the southern ports arrived over there on the south bank, conjoining at a spot where ferries had always crossed the river. There was a wooden bridge coming across from the main island, at a slightly odd angle.
Standing beside me, the procurator clearly shared my melancholy mood. Death and misty gray riverbanks produce the same effect. We were men of the world, yet our hearts ached.
Oppressed by our surroundings, I felt unready yet to address the Verovolcus death. “You mended the bridge, I see.”
“Yes. Boudicca used it to get at the settlement on the south bank—then her troops made a good attempt to put it out of action.” Hilaris sounded dry. “If this one seems rather strangely aligned, that’s because it isn’t permanent.” Clearly the bridge issue amused him. “Falco, I remember the post-Invasion bridge, which was intended to be for purely military purposes. It was just decking on pontoons. Later the supports were made permanent—but it was still wood, and we pulled it down. It was decided a decent stone bridge would signify permanence in the province, so this one was built.”
I joined in the satire. “You said this isn’t permanent either?”
“No. The permanent bridge will come straight across to link up with the forum; people arriving will have a splendid view, directly across from the river and up the hill.”
“So when is the permanent bridge planned for?” I asked, smiling.
“About ten years’ time, I’d say,” he told me gloomily. “Meanwhile we have this one, which you could call the permanent temporary bridge—or the temporary permanent bridge.”
“It’s offset so while you build the final version alongside, you can maintain a crossing point?”
“Correct! If you want to cross now, my advice is, use the ferry.”
I quirked up an eyebrow. “Why?”
“The bridge is temporary; we don’t maintain it.”
I laughed.
Hilaris then fell into a reflective mood. He enjoyed giving history lessons. “I remember when there was nothing here. Just a few round huts, most of them across the water. Orchards and coppices this side. By Jove it felt desolate! A civilian settlement struggled into existence after Rome invaded. But we were then away out at Camulodunum, the Britons’ own chief center. It was bloody inconvenient, I can tell you. Our presence caused bad feeling too; in the Rebellion that was the first place lost.”
“Londinium had enough by Nero’s day to attract Boudicca’s energy,” I reminisced bitterly. “I saw it ...Well, I saw what was left afterwards.”
Hilaris paused. He had forgotten that I was here in the Icenian Rebellion—a youngster, marked for life by that grim experience. Evidence of the firestorm remained to this day. Memories of corpses and severed heads churning in the local waterways would never die. The whole atmosphere of this place still upset me. I would be glad when I could leave.
Hilaris had been in Britain then too. I had been a ranker, and in a disgraced legion; he a junior official among the governor’s elite staff. Our paths would not have crossed.
After a moment he went on: “You’re right; the bridge will change things. The river used to form a natural boundary. The Atrebates and Cantii roamed to the south, the Trinovantes and Catuvellauni to the north. The floodplain was no-man’s-land.”
“We Romans were the first to deploy the corridor, making the river a highway?”
“Before we put in decent roads it was the best way to move around supplies, Marcus. The estuary is navigable way up to here—and in the early days ships were more secure than trundling goods across country. They can float up on one tide, then back on the next. After the Rebellion we made this the provincial capital and now it’s a major import base.”
“New city, new formal administrative center—”
“And new problems!” said Hilaris with unexpected feeling.
What problems? Did he already know what we were dealing with? It seemed a cue to discuss the Briton’s death.
“Verovolcus,” I admitted, “might have been in that district close to the river because he was trying to arrange transport to Gaul.”
I made no overt link to the problems. Whatever that was about could wait.
Hilaris turned his neat head and considered me. “You knew Verovolcus’ movements? Why was he going to Gaul?”
“Exile. He was in disgrace.”
“Exile!” Some people would at once have asked me why. Ever the pedantic administrator, Hilaris demanded, “Have you told the governor that?”
“Not yet.” I had no option now. “Oh, I like Frontinus. I’ve worked with him before, Gaius, and on confidential matters too. But you’re the old lag in this province. I was more likely to tell you.” I smiled, and the procurator acknowledged the compliment. “It’s a stupid story. Verovolcus killed an official. His motives were misguided, he expected royal protection—but he had misjudged Togidubnus.”
“You exposed him.” A statement, not a question. Hilaris knew how I worked. “And you did tell the King!”
“I had to.” That had been far from easy. Verovolcus had been the King’s close confidant. “It was tense. The King is virtually independent, and we were in his tribal center. Imposing a Roman solution was not easy. Fortunately Togi wants amicable relations, so in the end he agreed that this man had to disappear. Murder’s a capital crime, but that seemed the best I could ask for. From our angle, I felt I could sanction exile rather than a public trial and an execution. Sending Verovolcus to Gaul was my bargain for us all keeping the affair quiet.”
“Neat,” Hilaris agreed, ever pragmatic. Britain was a sensitive province since the Rebellion. Tribal feeling might not tolerate a respected king’s henchman being punished for murdering a Roman official. Verovolcus did it (I was confident of that) but the governor would have hated having to dole out a death sentence to the King’s right-hand man, and if Frontinus was publicly lenient he would look weak, both here and back in Rome.
“Verovolcus agreed on Gaul?”
“He wasn’t keen.”
“Londinium was not allowed as an alternative?”
“Nowhere in Britain. I would have made Londinium formally off-limits if I had ever thought Verovolcus would turn up here.”
“And the King?”
“He knew Gaul was better than the standard desert island.”
“But with Verovolcus killed in a Londinium bar instead, the King may well turn rough,” Hilaris observed glumly.
“Bound to,” I said.
He cleared his throat, as if diffident. “Will he suspect that you arranged his death?”
I shrugged.
No stranger to the ways of undercover agents, Flavius Hilaris turned to stare at me. He was blunt: “Did you?”
“No.”
He did not ask whether I would have done so, if I had thought of it. I chewed a fingernail, wondering that myself.
“You said Verovolcus killed someone,” suggested Hilaris. “Could his drowning be some form of retribution, Marcus?”
“Unlikely.” I was fairly sure. “There is nobody with an interest. He killed the architect, the project manager for the King’s new palace.”
“What? Pomponius?” As financial procurator, Hilaris ultimately signed off the bills for the King’s palace. He would know who the architect was—and that he had died. He would also have seen my situation review afterward. “But your report said—”
“All it had to.” I sensed a slight awkwardness, as if Hilaris and I answered to different masters over this. “I was on site to clear up problems. I put down the architect’s death as a “tragic accident.” There was no need to start a scandal by saying Togi’s man had killed him. The King will rein in his people and the crime won’t recur. A substitute is running the site, and running it well.”
Hilaris had let me talk him through it, but he remained unhappy. The report we were discussing had been addressed to the governor, but I had sent my own copy to Vespasian. I had always intended to give a more accurate statement to the Emperor later—if he wanted to know. Killing the story might help him preserve good relations with his friend the King. I did not care. I was paid on results.
The results Vespasian wanted were to stop a glut of wild expenditure on a very expensive building site. He had sent me, nominally a private informer, because I was a first-rate auditor. I had discovered a feud between the King as client and his officially appointed architect. When it flared up, with fatal results, we found ourselves left with nobody in charge of a multimillion-sesterces scheme—and chaos. Verovolcus, who had caused this mess, was not my favorite Briton. He was damned lucky that Gaul was the worst punishment I devised for him.
“Did Pomponius have relatives?” Hilaris was still fretting away at his retribution theory.
“In Italy. He had a boyfriend in Britain who was rather cut up, but he’s working on the site. We beefed up his responsibilities; that should keep him quiet. I can check he has not left the area.”
“I’ll send a messenger.” If Hilaris was overruling me it was tactful —so far. “What is his name?”
“Plancus.”
“Did Verovolcus act alone?”
“No. He had a crony. A site supervisor. We arrested him.”
“Present location?”
Thank the gods I had been conscientious about tying up ends: “Noviomagus. The King’s responsibility.”
“Punishment?”
“That I don’t know —” Now I felt like a schoolboy who had neglected his homework. Flavius Hilaris might be my wife’s uncle, but if I had bungled, I would be slated. “Mandumerus had had only a secondary role and he was a local, so I let Togidubnus deal with him.”
“Mandumerus, you say.” Hilaris picked me up at once. “I’ll find out.”
I let him run with the line. In the long term, I could bunk off to Rome. Rome might give me a grilling, but I was up to it. Hilaris would live with the legacy of this tavern slaughter as long as he stayed in Britain. The royal connection was awkward enough. In addition, one of the Hilaris family’s private homes stood in Noviomagus, just a mile from the King. Poor Uncle Gaius had been handed a personal “bad neighbor” quarrel, if nothing else.
“Marcus, you don’t think Togidubnus himself has punished Verovolcus in this way?”
“What a terrible thought!” I grinned. I liked Hilaris, but the devious minds of bureaucrats never cease to amaze me. “The King was annoyed at the man’s hotheaded action—but more annoyed with me for finding out.”
“Well, we are a step ahead of him so far.”
“I hope you are not suggesting a cover-up!” I offered satirically.
At that, Flavius Hilaris looked genuinely shocked. “Dear gods, no. But we do have some grace to find out what happened—before the King starts slamming us with ballista bolts.” The use of a trooper’s term from this quiet, cultured man reminded me there was more to nice, stylus-pushing Uncle Gaius than most people noticed.
I foresaw what was coming. “You mean, I have time to do it?”
“Of course.” He beamed at me.
I sighed. “Well, thanks.”
“Didius Falco, we are exceptionally lucky to have you here!”
Oh yes. This was a very familiar situation, one that clients had exploited in the past: I was implicated. I had made the victim leave his home ground, and though I told myself it was not my fault he ended up in a strange bar, I felt guilty. So I was stuck.