And that is not the end of it. Severius is not the only pretender to the purple, even now, and he is currently working to defend what he has won: mounting what he calls ‘a punitive campaign’ against one former rival candidate, while wooing the governor of Britannia with promises, in return for his support and the dropping of his own Imperial claim. A proclamation in Glevum, only recently, announced that ‘Governor Albinus is to be known as Caesar from now on, by order of his Divinity the Emperor Severius, as a token that the said Governor is Severius’s heir, to whom the rank of Emperor will pass.’ Yet Severius has children, in particular a son. If I were Albinus, I thought gloomily, I should be sceptical – and careful to employ a poison-taster I could trust.
Marcus, though, had no such doubts. ‘Do you suppose that I should provide dining-slippers for the banquets when this legate comes?’ he said to Titus, as the servants cleared away the remnants of the meats and proffered us clean napkins with which to wipe our lips before the table of sweet courses was brought in. ‘In Rome one always leaves one’s shoes off at a feast, once the slaves have washed one’s feet, but in Britannia it is too cold for that. Here in the villa, one might manage it – we have the hypocaust to heat the floor – but I don’t want to create an awkward precedent. Other councillors will wish to honour him as well, I’m sure, and try to outdo each other in providing feasts.’
And no doubt, as a reluctant duumvir, I would be expected to attend them all and listen to endless speeches of mutual flattery. I gave an inward groan. I would have to improve my technique for reclining-dining before then. My left elbow was already aching from supporting me. I moved myself discreetly a little on the couch to try to ease my toga-folds and free my eating arm, which had somehow got trapped in the material. Titus and my host were still busily engaged in discussing the proper etiquette for entertaining an Imperial ambassador, so they did not notice my discomfiture, but I had an ambition to taste the honey-cakes.
Raising my weight had solved the problem and I stretched out a hand, but before I could take a morsel from the dish, the feast was interrupted by a servant appearing at the door, and banging stridently upon a gong.
‘The lady Julia!’ the slave announced into the startled silence which ensued. I looked at my fellow-diners in surprise. Marcus, I saw, was frowning like a thundercloud.
‘Lady!’ he thundered, as she came into the room. ‘Why do you honour us with your presence in this way?’ The words made a half-pretence of courtesy but he was clearly furious.
This arrival, obviously, had not been pre-planned. It is not unusual for the lady of the house to be present at household banqueting, but on intimate occasions like this when all the guests are male, Julia – like many matrons of her class – usually elects to dine apart. (‘Civic business does not interest me,’ she once told my wife. ‘And very often I am simply in the way – the men can speak more freely if I don’t attend.’) Clearly that had been her intention for tonight – she was not even dressed for company: in fact, it looked as if she might have been preparing for her bed. She wore a plain pale-blue tunic with no jewels of any kind, and her hair was pulled back in a simple braid. Her face was bare of her usual make-up, too – no white powder to emphasise her skin, no kohl around her eyes or carmine on her lips – and she looked tired and strained, though to my eyes she was still extremely beautiful. (Her little attendant was a pretty girl herself, but beside her mistress she seemed unremarkable.)
Titus Flavius would have risen instantly – and so would I, of course – but Julia gestured us to stay reclining where we were. She came to stand across the table, straight in front of us and bowed her head to Marcus, but she did not smile. ‘Husband, I regret to interrupt you in this way, but there is an urgent messenger.’
Marcus levered himself a little more upright, so that he was leaning on one straightened arm. ‘A messenger? At this hour?’
‘Indeed.’ She met his eyes. ‘Some members of the curia had news this afternoon – long after the courts had finished for the day – so disturbing that they called a meeting there and then, and decided that you should be told without delay. Their messenger has ridden through the dusk, and only dismounted when it got too dark to see. He has come the last part entirely on foot. He pleads for audience.’
Marcus was still glowering. ‘Surely this can wait till we have finished here? I do not wish to be discourteous to our guests. Obviously, I cannot send a message back tonight. Tell the servants to prepare a bed for him, out in their quarters would be best, I suppose, and see that he is fed. I will see him when we have finished here. We can do no more this evening – whatever it’s about – so I’m sure that will suffice. He can take my answer back as soon as it is light.’
Julia allowed herself to smile. ‘I have already given instructions to accommodate him, as you suggest. However, I think that you’ll want to hear his message straight away. Grave news – or I would not have interrupted you.’ Her husband still looked doubtful, so she came around to him and bent to murmur something in his ear.
‘Dear gods! You’re sure?’ Marcus almost leapt up from the dining-couch. ‘And all of it is gone?’
‘I only tell you what the messenger has said.’
Marcus snatched off his dining-wreath, impatiently. ‘In that case, I will do as you suggest. I’d better hear the story from his lips.’ He seemed to remember his duties as a host. ‘Pardon me, citizens, for deserting you – but I must go and speak to this messenger at once. In the meantime, Julia, have them serve the wine. Keep our guests amused. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’ And he strode out of the room, leaving the servants looking mystified.
Julia took charge with commendable aplomb. Notwithstanding her unsuitable attire, she took the place that my patron had vacated, reclined gracefully upon one elbow and signalled for the banquet to proceed. A large silver bowl of the finest watered Rhenish was brought in, accompanied by a pretty little slave-boy with a flute, who began to tootle for us while – in the absence of Marcus – Titus made the required libation to the household lars.
There was an awkward silence, during which I made a little offering to the deities myself, discreetly swirling the liquid so it splashed across the rim. I am not a follower of the Roman pantheon, preferring the more ancient gods of river, tree and stone, but one never knows, and this evening’s problems were clearly Roman ones. A man can’t be too careful with the gods.
Julia noticed. She helped herself to a handful of dried apricots, then turned to smile at me. ‘You seek divine protection?’ she enquired. ‘So Marcus has persuaded you to stand as duumvir? He told me earlier that he intended to.’
This was clearly an attempt at normal conversation, but it was bizarre. It’s rumoured that when Emperor Commodus had a feast, he sometimes ordered executions to take place while they ate – strangely cruel ones, like having a bald man smeared with honeyed crumbs and pecked to death by birds – as an entertainment for the banquet-guests. And those invited used to talk of anything – the weather, the cost of slaves, the latest style in beards – rather than mention what was happening in front of them. It felt a little like that, as I answered Julia – as though our host had not, strangely, disappeared.
‘I am to stand as candidate!’ I said. ‘Not that I had much choice in the affair.’
She gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘I warned him that you might not welcome the idea – though Gwellia would like it, I am sure.’ She saw my doubtful look. ‘What wife would not be glad to see her husband recognised? To say nothing of the clothes and shoes she will acquire. All the tradesmen of the town will be competing for her custom, very soon, if …’ She broke off, as the gong rang out again and the little flautist faltered to a stop.
‘His Excellence, Marcus Aurelius Septimus!’ the usher cried, as though he were announcing a new arrival to the feast, and there was my patron standing at the door. He was looking anxious and his face was deathly pale, and he was absently running his ring-hand through his tousled curls. In his other hand he held an op
en writing-block: the message it contained had clearly shaken him.
‘My friends and fellow citizens,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt the feast, but I think you should hear this, Titus – it affects the curia. You too, perhaps, Libertus – for other reasons – though you’re not a member yet. The news is serious. It concerns a tax official from a small town south of here – Acacius Flauccus – you may have heard of him?’
‘But of course I have,’ I cried, jumping up so quickly that I almost spilt my wine. ‘He is coming to my workshop very soon, to discuss the patterns for an extensive pavement in a house he plans to buy. I’m expecting him tomorrow if the roads permit.’ I looked searchingly at Marcus. ‘I understood you’d recommended me.’ But he did not reply.
‘A large commission?’ Titus asked.
I turned to my fellow diner in relief. ‘I am hoping so. His steward arranged the visit, not half-a-moon ago. He explained that his master was planning to retire, and had agreed to buy a villa on the other side of town but wants to add a bath-suite to the property, with mosaic floors throughout. No doubt there’ll be a lot of haggling, but – if he finds a pattern that he likes – it should be a handsome contract in the end.’ I keep a range of patterns made up on linen backs, so that clients can select and mix the elements: the usual ones were far too big to send, but I’d made up some tiny samples for him to choose between. ‘Unless of course he wants a whole design bespoke – though that would naturally cost a good deal more.’
But my patron shook his head. ‘I fear, Libertus, that there will be no contract of any kind at all. Acacius Flauccus was found dead this afternoon. It rather looks as if he’s hanged himself.’
THREE
I was startled. So startled that I allowed the slave to pour me another cup of watered Rhenish wine. I don’t, in general, drink a lot of wine of any sort: I don’t much care for it in any case, and it always gives me a headache the next day, but this evening had been so full of strange events that I was suddenly glad of it’s warming bitter taste. Perhaps that’s why I could not think of anything to say.
It fell to Titus to express my thoughts. ‘Dear Jupiter!’ He frowned. ‘I suppose this information is reliable? Acacius Flauccus is not simply dead? Did I not hear that he was ill in any case?’
‘Ill?’ I stared at him. My tongue was strangely reluctant to form words, to my surprise, but I forced it to comply. ‘His steward did not mention that to me!’
Marcus gave me a look which conveyed, as clearly as if he’d said the words aloud, that it was unnecessary to share private news with tradesmen like myself. All he said, however, was, ‘All the same, it’s true. Flauccus caught a fever a moon or two ago. It left him very weak, and he’s never really recovered since. He wrote to the curia to explain as much, and was applying to be permitted to resign his post mid-term. The council decided to allow him to withdraw – that’s why he was coming to Glevum, now – to meet his successor and render his accounts.’
I nodded stupidly. Of course, the licence to operate as a publicanus would not officially expire until the Kalends of Mars (which in ancient times was reckoned the beginning of the year, and is still the moment when the public tax falls due – as even a humble property-owner like me is well aware!).
Titus was saying, thoughtfully, ‘I remember. His letter was read out to the curia and it was all agreed, though there was some argument about who should be permitted to buy the licence in his stead. Not everyone approved the candidate. We were discussing it again, the day that fire broke out. Though that would not affect Acacius Flauccus, naturally, except that we agreed to send a message requiring him to come to Glevum as soon as possible and pay in the money he’d collected up to now.’
‘Presumably tomorrow was the suggested date?’ I said. ‘That would make sense of his arranging to see me.’
‘Exactly!’ Titus answered. Then he frowned. ‘Perhaps we set conditions that were too hard for him. The roads can be atrocious at this season of year, and the journey would be harsh, especially for a man who is not in the most robust of health. I trust it was not the thought of that which drove him to the act?’
Marcus shook his head. Julia had relinquished her position on the dining-couch, but he did not come back to join us and recline on it. Instead he sat down on a nearby stool and motioned for a slave to bring him wine. When he seized the cup and drank it at a draught (something which no well-bred Roman would ever generally do) I realised how seriously he was disturbed.
He signalled for a napkin with which dab his lips. ‘I don’t think the curia can blame themselves,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘This was discovered beside him on the floor.’ He held up the writing-block. ‘An open writing-tablet – one of Flauccus’s – with a message crudely scratched into the wax. “Gambled everything and lost. I could not take the shame”. Since there was no sign of any money in the house, I think we must assume that was indeed the cause.’ He passed the block to Titus who stared at it white-faced.
‘Gambled everything?’ he gasped. ‘Official takings too?’
‘Official takings in particular.’ Marcus sounded dazed. ‘The coffer-chest was found beside him, open on the floor. The receipts for the taxes he’d collected were still there. The record-scrolls were on the table – all unrolled. But the money …’ He groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
Julia came to stand beside him. ‘Husband, I’ve been thinking ever since I heard. How can they be sure he hanged himself? Might it not have been a robbery? Someone could have rigged the corpse up afterwards to look like suicide?’ She put a tentative hand out to him but it was shrugged away – though Marcus is unfashionably devoted to his wife. Further proof, if I required it, of his state of mind.
‘Woman, do you not suppose that I had thought of that?’ he roared. ‘The man was a tax collector, after all!’
He had a point, in that. Publicani are never the most popular of men – less hated than they used to be, of course, before the Emperor Augustus reformed the licences. But still detested, as a general rule. Flauccus had no doubt made many enemies.
‘There are probably scores of people who would be glad to see him dead,’ Marcus went on, more peaceably. ‘But it’s obvious that he’d pre-planned this whole event. Everyone believed that he was on his way to us – his personal effects and furniture were stored, and the place made ready for his replacement to move in. He’d even sold his servants, or his steward, Loftus, had – that very day in fact – thus ensuring that Flauccus would be in the house alone. Briefly, but long enough to kill himself. And no one but himself could have arranged for that.’
‘And all this excited no remark, because Flauccus was to come to Glevum, anyway?’ Titus was not really asking, he was marshalling his thoughts.
‘Exactly so – and everybody thought he had. His carriage was even seen to leave the property. It was his private carriage, naturally enough, and the man who saw it leave simply imagined it was bringing Flauccus here, together with the tax money.’
‘Without an escort?’ Titus was amazed.
‘That was my reaction, but Flauccus never employed an escort for longer than he must. He apparently insisted that a mounted guard simply drew attention to the fact that there was something of value in the coach, and invited an attack. There were members of the local guard post detailed to escort him once he was on the road – as usual for anyone carrying public funds – but he tried to avoid it whenever possible, and only submitted when he was leaving town. That’s been his preference ever since he held the post – and it was his risk, of course, since he was liable if any money went astray.’ He groaned. ‘Or so we had supposed. We had not reckoned on this development.’
‘But surely,’ Titus said, ‘an escort would have been mandatory today? Scores of miles on a military road, where rebels and bandits are constantly a threat?’
‘And he had requested one, but the time of departure was yet to be confirmed – so no one suspected anything amiss. Furthermore, Flauccus had told the guards that he ha
d a few last payments to collect before he left – that was supposedly why he could not be exact about the hour – so if his carriage passed, it would occasion no remark. None of the guards remembers seeing it go by but no one can be sure. They would not have challenged it – there was no question of requiring a toll.’
‘One can see how that would help Flauccus plan this suicide,’ Titus put in suddenly. ‘With the coachman gone he had the house entirely to himself. Loftus would return to lock the premises, ready to follow his master on horseback, and then to surrender the key to the curia here. It’s an official residence, I think, and will pass to the incoming publicanus when he takes up the post?’
I found myself nodding, rather stupidly. ‘That’s why Flauccus needed a villa here?’ I said, to show that I was listening, though the Rhenish was doing strange things to my tongue. I took another sip.
‘The new man should have been the one to find the corpse.’ Marcus ignored my interruption. ‘I think that was the plan. But when Loftus got back to the house – with the money from the slave market – before he locked the doors he made one last inspection of the property. He found his master in his study dangling from a beam, with a stool beside him which had been kicked away. And this writing-block and the empty coffer-box beside him on the floor.’ He gave another groan. ‘You can see what that means, Titus, I am sure. The curia will have to make the missing taxes up.’
Titus Flavius was looking flushed and stern. ‘Perhaps we must accept that he committed suicide. But that does not prove he wasn’t robbed. If the gold was taken from him while he was still alive, wouldn’t he be liable to repay the missing gold himself, rather the burden falling on the curia?’ Titus was warming to his theme. ‘In which case, perhaps we should be looking for a thief? If someone has the gold, it could be recovered yet.’
The Price of Freedom Page 3
