London - Edward Rutherfurd [38]
It seemed to him that the safest plan was to wait until the morning and then encounter Sextus in the street on the way to the games. Until then, he must somehow try to act as though nothing had happened.
But where to hide the bag? That was a problem. Somewhere safe, not connected with himself. Some place where he could easily retrieve it later. He cast about, but found nothing.
Until, skirting the summit of the western of the two hills where the little temple of Diana stood, he glanced at one of the pottery kilns that shared the site. Beside it was a heap of waste, rejected pots and other rubble that had obviously been undisturbed for some time. Waiting until there was no one about, he had sauntered over to the pile, pushed the bag quickly under the rubbish, and moved swiftly away. No one had seen him. He was sure of it. He had gone home.
But he felt little confidence. And as he looked once more from his father’s cheerful face to his mother’s, he knew why.
For if Rufus was merry and red-faced and loved to sing, his wife was none of these things. Her hair, now neither blond nor grey, was pulled in a tight bun. Her eyes were grey and never shone. Her face, unchanged since his childhood, was phlegmatically pale, like pastry before it is cooked. She was kind enough, and he believed that she loved them all, but she spoke little, and when her husband told a joke she never laughed but only stared. It often seemed as though, like a boring but habitual duty, she carried about with her the burden of some glum memory.
Celtic memories were long. Only two centuries had passed since Boudicca, the tribal queen, had revolted against the conquering Romans, and her family had been of Queen Boudicca’s tribe. “My grandfather was born in the reign of Emperor Hadrian, who built the wall,” she would state, “and his grandfather was born in the year of the great revolt. He lost both his parents.” She still had distant cousins in the remote countryside who farmed just as their Celtic ancestors had and spoke no word of Latin. Hardly a day went by without her uttering some dismal warning.
“Those Romans are all the same. They get you in the end.” It had been like a litany all his childhood.
Click. A sharp sound from the draughts board interrupted these observations. A series of clicks and a triumphant bang.
“Wiped him off the board.” His father’s red face was grinning at him. “Dreaming about women?” He began to gather up the draughts. “Time to go in a little while,” he added more seriously, before disappearing into his bedroom to get ready.
Julius waited. The meeting with his father’s friends at the temple that evening was important. Very important. He must try to forget about the day’s events and prepare himself. “Just show that you’re businesslike and ready to learn. That’s all you have to do,” his father had counselled him.
He tried to concentrate, but it was difficult. Surely he had taken every precaution he could. And yet there was still one thing that was bothering him.
The bag. All evening, he now realized, the bag had lain there, in the back of his mind, silently haunting him. At first he had been so afraid the soldiers might come that he was glad the bag was hidden where no one could connect him with it. But now he guessed that in the barracks, as everywhere in the city, the soldiers would be preparing for the games, and he became more and more confident that they were not coming. For that night, at least, he was probably safe.
Which left the bag. Of course, it was well hidden. But what if by some fluke they decided to clear up the rubbish? Or some scavenger should discover the coins and steal them? A picture of the precious bag, out there in the night, hovered before his eyes.