As soon as they had picked themselves up and pulled themselves together, two of the house-slaves ran out after him. I followed, a little more slowly, as my age required.
But as I arrived at the front entrance they returned, panting.
‘It is no good, citizen, he had a horse outside, being held by a beggar. He was on to it and away in no time. We almost caught him, but he was too quick for us.’
I frowned. ‘Who is he? Apart from being called Eppaticus?’
They looked at each other, shrugging. ‘I do not know, citizen. He is not a man we’ve ever seen before.’
‘Not as a dinner guest? Not among your master’s clientes?’
They shook their heads in unison.
I found myself in a quandary now. I was here to investigate the death of Caius Monnius, and Eppaticus had apparently not known about that, so I had no reason to detain him. Yet his behaviour throughout had been so extraordinary – barging into the house uninvited, and barging just as abruptly out of it again – that I was reluctant just to let him go.
I turned to Junio, who had followed – like a good slave – at my heels. ‘Fetch me Superbus,’ I said, with sudden determination. ‘He can go and ask a few questions for me. I want to know more about that Trinovantine.’
‘Superbus, master?’ Junio sounded stricken. ‘Are you sure that he will ask the right question—’
I interrupted him. ‘Send me Superbus,’ I said firmly. ‘You cannot be everywhere at once, and there are more immediate matters here which I want you to help with.’
‘As you wish, master,’ Junio said, and did as he was bidden, although with an expression which suggested that he still had the gravest doubts about the wisdom of my decision.
‘And be quick about it!’ I shouted after him, largely for the benefit of the assembled servants, who had been watching this unslavelike exchange with fascination.
‘Well,’ I said, rounding on the others briskly. ‘Have you no work to do? Back to your stations at once, and report this intrusion to your mistress. You!’ I elected one of them at random. ‘Escort me to the lady Fulvia. If she is well enough I think I should hear her account of what happened last night.’
‘Yes, citizen,’ he murmured dutifully, as the others shuffled off to their posts. ‘If you would follow me . . .’
He led me back towards the master’s quarters. Only just in time. As I turned away, I could already hear Annia’s voice raised in outrage. ‘You worm! You offspring of a circus trainer’s pimp! How dare you not inform me of this sooner!’ While Lydia wailed plaintively, ‘Another intruder! Great Mercury defend us. We shall all be murdered in our beds.’
My attendant shot me an embarrassed smile and led the way back to the painted passage where I had been before. The smoke was thicker now, and more pungent, but we passed the master’s room and the slave tapped timidly at the second door.
‘Enter!’ said Fulvia’s voice, and we went in.
It was a luxurious room, beautifully decorated with roundels of painted flowers on the wall. Fine bed, fine cushions, fine rugs upon the floor: a great bound chest near the door for clothes and ornaments: another at the foot of the bed: an elegant footstool: a little brazier and a dozen lamps: an exquisite small shrine upon a stand, and a small shelf built into the wall where there was such an assortment of phials and pots, boxes, mirrors, combs and bowls that you might have thought the lady was going into the cosmetics business herself, and had made a collection for the purpose.
As in every other part of the house, no expense had been spared, but here there was evidence of a discerning eye. The garments that an elderly maidservant was folding fussily into the storage chest, too, were not only of finest wool and linen, but in the subtlest colours to be had in the Empire – mossy greens, soft blues and amethyst – each one a tribute to the dyer’s art. And to the depth of the buyer’s purse, I thought.
Fulvia was lying back against her pillows. She had removed her veil and silken belt and placed them on a stool beside the bed, but otherwise she was dressed as before, and her dark robes were in starkest contrast to the beautiful pastel shades around her. One of the pretty pageboys was engaged in bathing her forehead with what looked like goat’s milk and water from a bowl. The other boy stood at the open window-space, which was large – exactly like the one in the next room – and was using a large feather fan to waft away the pungent smoke which was issuing from under the inner door. Nevertheless, the air was heavy with the smells of incense and burning herbs.
Fulvia stretched out a languid hand to me. ‘Ah, you have come, citizen.’ I bent over the hand, and she continued, ‘I was beginning to wonder what had happened. I heard some sort of . . . commotion.’
‘Eppaticus the Trinovantine,’ I informed her. ‘Come to demand his money. He claims that your husband owes him twenty thousand sesterces. That’s five thousand denarii!’
I had hoped to provoke some sign of recognition at the name, but there was none. Fulvia wrinkled her pretty brow. ‘Eppaticus,’ she murmured. ‘What an ugly name. I have never heard it, I am sure. I would have remembered it.’
‘You would not forget him in hurry,’ I said. I gave a brief description.
She shook her head. ‘One of my husband’s nasty business contacts, I imagine. I’m sorry, citizen, I cannot help you there.’
‘And the money?’ I enquired. ‘Five thousand denarii is a lot of silver. You think your husband really owed him as much as that?’
She waved a careless hand. ‘Oh, that is quite possible. Monnius was always striking deals.’ She seemed more composed now, speaking about her husband, than she had done previously. She furrowed her pretty brow, and added, ‘Did I not hear that money had been taken? About that amount, I think. Perhaps Eppaticus was right, and that was the money owed to him.’
‘Twenty thousand sesterces?’ I said in amazement. Pertinax had spoken of a ‘substantial sum’, but I had not imagined a small fortune like this. Even carrying away such a quantity of coins would be quite a feat in itself. ‘Did Monnius regularly keep such large amounts in the house?’
Fulvia laughed. ‘Oh yes, citizen. And larger sums than that. He had safe hiding places built especially – under the floorboards in his room, in his study, even in the walls. If you were to search this house from roof to soil I dare say you would find ten times that quantity in gold and silver, even now.’
‘And could you lead me to these hiding places?’
She dazzled me with a smile ‘Not I, citizen. I was never told his secrets. My husband did not trust females with money. Not even his mother. Of course, where I was concerned there was no problem. If I wished for anything, I had merely to ask. Monnius was always’ – she smiled – ‘a susceptible man.’
I let it pass, for the moment – though naturally there were questions I would want to ask her later. I said, ‘And the documents?’
‘Documents?’ She sounded astonished.
‘I understand some scrolls have also disappeared.’
‘Scrolls? I do not think so, citizen.’ She frowned. ‘At least . . . I had not heard of this. Documents? You are certain of that?’
‘I report only what I heard,’ I said. ‘A sum of money and at least one document-scroll. Your husband would have had such things, I presume?’
‘Indeed, citizen. His writing desk was always littered with them. I saw him take delivery of some new ones yesterday. Though they are only business contracts and copies of the imperial corn decrees, I think. Why should a sneak thief make away with those?’
‘You have the advantage of me, lady. You have seen his “documents”. Perhaps you could suggest a reason.’
Her pale cheeks coloured faintly. ‘Perhaps I could have done, citizen, except that my father had firm views on educating women. He believed that girls should learn what he called “useful arts”. Hence, I can play three types of instrument, sing you songs in Latin and in Greek, dance you most kinds of dance and tell you a hundred legends. I can dye wool, weave a length of cloth,
mix you a remedy and oversee a household to perfection. But, though I can scratch my name on a wax tablet when required, in general reading is not among my skills. And I did not know that any scrolls were missing.’
She spoke with a kind of bitterness and I could only nod. Celtic girls have always received the same education as their brothers, so that these days, when so many richer Celtic men read Latin, one expects their educated womenfolk to do the same. I am inclined to forget that Roman families sometimes see matters differently. I changed the subject hastily. ‘But, even if you could not read the scrolls, you can tell me something about what happened here last night?’
She had been waiting for that question, one could see it in her eyes. Proud of her skill at storytelling, perhaps, because she gestured me to a stool beside her, waved away the slave with the bowl, and, leaning up on her undamaged arm, arranged herself more carefully on the bed. It was a kind of art form, I could see that – every fold of drapery contrived to emphasise the muscular perfection of her form.
I dragged my thoughts back to what she was saying. ‘. . . I woke to hear a noise, in the next room. At least, I did not exactly waken, I was half awake already. I opened my eyes and there was a shadow beside the bed.’ She was acting out the story as she spoke, and said the words with such feeling that I felt my own heart skip a beat.
‘Go on.’
‘There was a movement – I knew it was a knife, and I flung up my arm, like this, to shield my face.’ She lifted her unbandaged limb to demonstrate. ‘Next moment the knife was slicing my skin. Strange, I was aware of little pain – just something warm and sticky running down my arm.’ She looked down at her fingers now, breathing hard.
‘And then?’ I prompted. She had closed her eyes and lapsed into silence, as if she were reliving the moment.
‘I was terrified. I found myself screaming . . . screaming.’ She paused. ‘That must have frightened him, because he seemed to hesitate. I thought he was going to stab me again, but then there was a noise upstairs – thanks be to Mercury – and he rushed out of the room. I heard the knife clatter down – I think I’d closed my eyes again – and when I opened them . . . he was gone.’ She opened them now and gave me that fluttering, uneven smile again. ‘I am sorry, citizen, but that is all I know.’
‘It was a man, however?’
‘I am sure of that, citizen. A big, heavy man too, by the look of him – although of course I did not see his face.’
‘But agile,’ I said, ‘since he seems to have escaped through the window-space in no time and scaled that ladder over the wall.’
She seemed to sense a challenge in that. She flushed. ‘I may be mistaken, citizen. After all, it was very dark.’
I glanced at her. ‘Of course. No doubt our murderer relied on that. And no one else in the household saw or heard anything?’
She shrugged. ‘Annia Augusta and Lydia and her son have rooms in the other wing. As to the slaves who should have been on watch, I believe they were drugged. Given a sleeping potion to ensure that they did hear nothing. My old nurse thinks so, don’t you, Prisca?’
The elderly slave-woman who had been folding garments ceased her task and nodded agreement. ‘The mistress is right, citizen. There was something peculiar in the servants’ wine last night, I knew it as soon as ever I tasted it. I said so to that pageboy at the master’s door, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was half asleep before his head even touched the floor.’
Fulvia added helpfully, ‘It would not be difficult to do it, citizen. Warmed water and strong herbs are added to the dregs of wine each evening, and the mixture is left in a large bowl at the kitchen door for the night-slaves, to warm them and help them keep awake. The whole household must know about it. If someone added a sleeping draught to that . . .’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But would outsiders know about the wine? Or did the “shadow”, whoever he might be, have someone in the household helping him? Someone who knew about that wine, for instance, and that there were thousands of sesterces in Monnius’ study that night.’
Fulvia was staring at me aghast. ‘But who . . .?’
‘Oh,’ I said, with careful carelessness, ‘someone with a friend or lover in the household. Someone like . . .’ I paused, watching her intently, ‘Lividius Fortunatus, for example?’
Chapter Seven
I had hoped for some reaction from Fulvia, but it was Prisca, the ageing slave-woman, who gave herself away. She turned the colour of a terracotta vase and dropped the folded garments in a fluster.
‘Don’t answer him, mistress!’ she cried, before Fulvia’s warning look could stop her. ‘He can’t know anything about Fortunatus. None of us would ever have said a word.’
That was as good as a confession. I looked at Fulvia. ‘So I take it that Annia Augusta was correct? The name of Fortunatus does mean something to you?’
She looked from me to the maidservant and back again, then gave a helpless shrug. ‘I see that it is useless to deny it now. Very well, citizen, I admit the truth. The name does mean something to me, and the owner of the name still more.’
‘Good mistress . . .’ The slave-woman stepped forward, twisting her hands in her tunic girdle and looking anguished. ‘Don’t tell him. Have a care . . .’
‘Be silent, Prisca!’ Fulvia motioned away her would-be counsellor. ‘You have said too much already. However, since the truth is out, thanks to your runaway tongue, there is no longer any point in dissembling. Do not look so stricken. Perhaps it is as well the facts are known, and I should prefer the citizen to learn the story from my own lips, rather than hear a distorted version from someone else. Besides, Monnius is dead, and finding the man who killed him is of more importance now than my reputation.’
That was prudent, I thought, especially since much more than her reputation was at stake here. I wondered if she realised how much circumstances contrived to make her seem a likely accomplice to murder.
It seemed not. She turned to look at me directly, white-faced but dignified. ‘So I must throw myself on your discretion, citizen. I am a young woman, and my husband was old, ugly and . . . importunate. Violent sometimes. But he was rich and powerful, and, in his way, he loved me. He never would have let me go, alive.’
‘He was a brute, citizen,’ the maidservant burst out. ‘I have known this poor lady pace the corridors for hours, weeping, when he’d done with her. She thinks I didn’t know it but I did. Poor lady – no wonder she wanted a bit of tenderness now and then.’
‘Be silent, Prisca,’ Fulvia said. She looked at me, not dropping her eyes as modest Roman matrons do, but squarely and frankly as if inviting understanding. ‘But she is right, citizen. I did, I confess it, once or twice seek consolation elsewhere.’
‘So,’ I said, still pursuing my own thoughts, ‘Fortunatus did come to this house?’
She held my gaze. ‘Many times, citizen. At my husband’s invitation first – Monnius was a devotee of chariot racing – and then, increasingly, at mine.’
‘Without your husband’s knowledge?’
She did lower her eyes then. ‘Sometimes, citizen.’
Again it was Prisca who rushed headlong into speech. ‘Well, citizen, what if she did – who in the world could blame her? You do not know what a monster Monnius was. Always out gambling or drinking or making his hole-in-the-corner deals somewhere, coming home at all hours stinking of wine, women and garlic – reeling round the floor, sometimes, violent with drink – and then demanding his wife. I’ve stood by this bed with a lamp in one hand and a vomit bowl in the other – he always insisted on light when he came in here – and he would treat her so roughly. He’d summon her into his bed, sometimes, in the middle of the night, and do it all again. I have seen her covered in bruises from his so-called attentions. It brought tears to my eyes to watch it—’
‘Prisca! Enough!’
But the slave-woman was determined to defend her mistress, and she would not be silenced. ‘Forgive me, lady, but the citizen should know.’ Sh
e turned to me. ‘I’ve served my mistress since she was a tiny girl, and no one ever cared for her like I do – but it was shameful, what Monnius did to her. And then the next day, in he’d come, with one of his gifts of silks and necklaces, trying to wheedle round her and promising the earth. And pawing her all over with his great hairy hands, ready to start again. What wonder if my poor mistress sought a bit of comfort with a young, good-looking man? Why, I could tell you . . .’
‘Prisca!’ Fulvia said again. ‘Leave us. Now. At once. Wait in the corridor, and hold your tongue. How dare you speak of your master in this way? And in front of the pages too?’
For a moment I really thought the old maidservant was going to defy her mistress once again. But in the end she merely sighed, sniffed, and took herself off as instructed, still muttering beneath her breath, ‘Well, the serving boys would only tell you the same thing.’
I saw the lads exchange glances. ‘Would you tell me the same thing?’ I asked them.
Again that uncomfortable exchange of looks. Then the older of the two said, unwillingly, ‘There were rumours, citizen, in the servants’ hall. That is all. If Lividius Fortunatus did come here when Caius Monnius was out, we never witnessed it ourselves.’
I understood the message perfectly. I have been a slave myself. Like all good servants, these two had seen nothing and heard nothing, and would have remained conveniently blind and deaf if the charioteer had burst in every night stark naked with a band of pipers. As to relations between Monnius and his wife, the boy had simply evaded the question. I wondered how much the pages really knew. If my patron, Marcus Septimus, had been here, no doubt he would have arranged to have the boys flogged to sharpen their memories. However, I let it pass. I have found the technique unreliable – Marcus has sometimes been misled when witnesses, in order to stop the torturer’s lash, have suddenly remembered things that never happened at all.
The boys had told me something by their very silence, however. They were sympathetic to Fulvia, even when I was trying to find their master’s murderer. That told me a good deal about Caius Monnius. I pressed my advantage.
The Chariots of Calyx Page 6
