It was strange to move out of the tension of the camp and into the normal hubbub of the town. The streets were still bustling with the business of the day, the inhabitants oblivious of the dreadful news from Rome. Our little party attracted some curious stares, of course — the young trumpeter in particular was an unusual sight — but people were too busy with their errands and their trades to do much more than gawp and nudge their neighbours as we hurried past.
We did hurry. Villosus saw to that. He was taking his role as courier very seriously and, being a trained soldier and used to route-marching, kept up a pace which I soon found impossible to match.
‘You’ll have to slow down, soldier,’ I managed, between heaving gulps of breath. ‘I’m just an old tradesman. I’m not used to this.’ I clung to a pillar in a portico and tried to get some air into my gasping lungs. I knew my face was scarlet with effort, and my toga was threatening to dislodge itself and fall in embarrassing festoons around my knees. I hitched it up. I felt ridiculous — even the horn-blower was looking half-amused. Despite his awkward instrument, he’d kept up easily, without so much as seeming to bestir himself. ‘Let me rest a moment here,’ I pleaded, breathlessly.
Villosus looked doubtful. ‘We can’t be too long, citizen. Any message from the commander must be delivered with all possible dispatch — every messenger will tell you that. Besides, we don’t want any shipping slipping out of port because we contrived to miss it while we were loitering here.’
It was a point I hadn’t thought of and I acknowledged that — though only by a nod. I was still too out of breath for unnecessary words. After a little, when I’d stopped gasping like a landed fish, I let go of my pillar and we started off again, though mercifully a fraction more slowly than before. Fortunately the docks are no great distance from the garrison and we were soon walking down the only broad main street that meets the riverside.
The wharf is always a busy area and today was no exception. There were people everywhere — sailors, merchants, moneylenders, overseers, slaves — while outside the busy warehouses and wine shops, the usual street vendors wove nimbly through the crowd, offering hot pies and oatcakes from their greasy trays. A bored soldier stood in the centre of the quay, obviously on watch and leaning on his spear — though he was too busy looking at a plump prostitute (draped against the doorway of a drinking house and dressed in the tell-toga) to notice we were there.
‘There’s the guard,’ said Villosus and went to walk that way, but I held back a moment, peering at the quay. Was there a likely ship there, or had we come too late?
Despite the crowd it was possible to see several vessels tied up at the dock. Two were being unloaded as I watched, and their crews — assisted by gangs of slaves from the nearby warehouse — were already scuttling to and from the quay, carrying sacks and boxes into store, loading dried fish onto waiting handcarts for the market stalls, or teetering down unsteady planks balancing precious amphorae in their arms while their masters shouted instructions from the decks.
Another ship stood idle, its single sail dangling loosely from the mast and its rows of wooden oars shipped inboard — awaiting cargo by the look of it, since it rode a little higher in the water than the rest. Only a single watchman seemed to be aboard. I shook my head. None of these seemed likely candidates as hiding places for Marcus’s effects, yet they were the only sea-going vessels in the dock. All the rest were smaller, purely local craft: eel-boats and the little one-man coracles that ply between Glevum and the islands in the river, bringing back mud crabs and mussels for the marketplace or for use as bait for local fishermen.
I shook my head. I was almost certain that, after all, I would find nothing here. We had arrived too late. In fact, when I considered it more carefully, perhaps I should have anticipated that. It was only that false message to the land-slaves yesterday which suggested that the ship was still in port. Or even, come to think of it, that there had ever been a ship at all. What had ever made me think that the goods were bound for Gaul? Only that forged letter to the household slaves!
‘Citizen!’ Villosus was tugging at my arm. ‘We must go and see the guard and tell him about the announcement for the sea-captains.’
I gave an inward groan. If trade were interrupted unnecessarily and these ships were all delayed to no useful purpose, it would be my doing, I thought despondently — though only the commander and myself would be aware of that. But there was nothing for it now. I nodded at Villosus. ‘Very well, lead on,’ and followed him across the quay to where the soldier was.
The man had sensed us coming and had dragged his eyes away from the dumpy prostitute. I was surprised that he was interested in her — she was no longer very young and her hair was so dyed with henna that it was getting thin. But he must have been, as she was obviously licensed and there was nothing illegal in her looking out for customers provided she did not actually approach them and operated only in the registered premises. Perhaps he was hoping to purchase her favours later on, when he was off duty and had an as or two to spend. He was a legionary soldier, by his uniform, and not looking pleased at our interruption of his reverie.
Villosus did not even wait for him to speak. He offered the watchword with self-conscious pride, and explained what the commander had ordered him to do. The soldier sighed. ‘So we can expect the docks to be full of idle men all night!’ he muttered. ‘Very well, then — sound the trumpet, tubicen.’
The sulky youth stepped forward and raised the tuba to his lips. It was not much shorter than the trumpeter himself, and he held the body of it upwards so it towered overhead. People were already turning round to stare, but as the clear notes sounded, everybody stopped and expectant silence fell.
The legionary gestured to a passing slave to bring across a wooden box that he was carrying. ‘Put it on the paving over there. I want to stand on it.’
The slave looked startled, but did as he was told and the legionary climbed onto his temporary dais. ‘Citizens, friends, strangers — gather round. There’s an important proclamation I’ve been asked to make.’
There was a general scurry as the crowd complied, and the murmur of conversation began to rise again. The trumpeter, who had come suddenly to life, glanced at the soldier for permission to proceed, and — having gained it — gave another piercing tuba blast. This time the silence was immediate.
The legionary, who was clearly enjoying his unexpected role, struck a pose — one hand on his chest and the other in the air, as one sees lawyers sometimes do — and declaimed the message in a ringing voice. ‘No departures from the port are authorised today. Captains of all vessels are to report to the forum shortly before dusk. There will be an announcement of great importance then.’ Realising that there were mutterings of discontent, he added, more feebly, ‘This is by order of the garrison. Disperse.’
Far from dispersing, though, the crowd was thickening. People were appearing from dwellings, warehouses and the maze of narrow lanes around the quay, and even the clients in the drinking shop put down their cups of watered wine and hurried out to see what the disturbance was. Among the throng I saw a man I recognised, an ancient steward named Vesperion, who worked at one of the larger warehouses nearby. In fact, I remembered hearing he was now effectively in charge, as the business had changed hands (as a result of an unfortunate incident I’d been able to resolve) and the new purchaser knew little about the import-export trade.
It occurred to me that Vesperion would know — if anybody did — what ships had come and gone from Glevum in the last day or two and what they were carrying. And I’d done the new owner of the premises a favour once (in fact, it was probably my doing that he owned the place at all) so I felt justified in going there first to ask for help.