London - Edward Rutherfurd [42]
The centurion had taken the boy on. The mariner had said that he liked him. “You could be set up for life,” he told Julius contentedly. If his son seemed a little thoughtful, he supposed there was no harm in that.
In fact, Julius’s mind was in a whirl. The centurion had not recognized him; he must thank the gods for that. But what about the mariner? He had the impression he had only just got back, but he had not dared to ask. Had he been home yet? Could he have seen the letter? Should he warn Martina, to make sure she destroyed it? It was too late for that, he thought. The mariner was probably halfway home by now.
As for their affair, even if the mariner remained in the dark, could he really think of a relationship with the wife of the man on whom his business career now depended? The idea was absurd.
And yet. He thought of that body; he thought of that rhythmic walk. He went on thinking as he went along.
The house was dark when they arrived back. His mother and sister had gone to bed. His father bade him an affectionate goodnight and retired. For a time Julius sat and thought about the day’s events, but came to no conclusion. Realizing that he was tired, he too decided to go to bed.
Carrying a small oil lamp he went into his room and sat on the bed. He took off his clothes. Before lying down, he reached under the bed to feel the precious bag, yawning as he did so. Then he frowned.
Vaguely irritated, he hauled himself off the bed and knelt on the floor. He put his arm under the bed and pushed the boxes aside. Then he put the lamp on the floor, and stared in disbelief.
The bag had gone.
The figure moved quietly in the darkness. There were few lights here, on the south bank of the river. Crossing by the wooden bridge, he had continued southwards a little way past the big tavern for arriving travellers, and past the baths, before striking off into a lane on the right. Unlike the streets of Londinium across the river, only the main street here was metalled. Walking on the dirt, therefore, his sandalled feet made no sound. His cape was pulled over his head.
When he came to the familiar little house, he paused. The whitewashed walls glimmered in the pale moonlight. The front door, he knew, would be bolted. The windows were shuttered. There was a courtyard at the back, though, into which he slipped.
From its kennel, the dog came swiftly out and barked, but then, recognizing its master, quietened. Standing in the shadows, man and dog waited for a while to make sure that no one was stirring. Then the hooded figure climbed on to a water butt and, with surprising agility, got on to the tiled wall running along the side of the courtyard to the corner of the house. The slanting moonlight cast shadow lines beside the ridges of the terracotta tiles that covered the roof, making a strangely geometric pattern as the hooded figure walked skilfully along the top of the wall to the square, dark space of a window whose wooden shutters were open.
The mariner entered his house quietly and made his way to the door of the room where Martina was sleeping.
He had been suspicious for about a month. It was hard to say why: something in his young wife’s manner; a preoccupied look; a tiny hesitation in their lovemaking. Certainly nothing much. Another man might have ignored it. But the mariner’s mother had been Greek and from her he had imbibed, in childhood, a sense of fierce, proud possession that lay under the surface of all his dealings with men and women alike. “He’s patient as can be when he sails,” those who voyaged with him would say, “but if someone cheats him, he must have blood.”
The mariner did not think the girl had been unfaithful. Not yet. But he had decided to make sure, and so he had played the oldest trick known to married men and pretended to be away when