‘Did you interrogate him thoroughly yourselves?’ I persisted, wondering if such methods had been used.
The tesserarius shook his tawny head. ‘We were about to, but we got a message from your patron to desist. So we sent Loftus to the villa cells to stew. A pity, we might have discovered what he knew. You realise that if there’s any question of a court case later on – perhaps on charges of illegal gambling – the steward’s testimony won’t be acceptable unless it can be proved that it was properly obtained?’
Extorted under torture, that is what he meant. And he was right, of course. The Roman legal system chooses to maintain that either a slave will be so loyal to his owner at all times that his supporting words can’t be relied upon, or – if his testimony proves his master’s guilt – that he is disloyal and simply seeking his revenge. Either way his simple oath is meaningless, so only torment can ensure he speaks the truth.
‘Then I shall have to find out what he knows, myself,’ I murmured. ‘Please have him brought to me. I would like to see the body and the scene of death, as well, so I’d be glad if he could join me there – if that is possible. He may notice changes that another man would miss.’
The principalis heaved another mighty sigh. ‘It shall be arranged. I’m under orders to comply with your demands. I’ll send a man to lead you to where Acacius lived – he has been laid out on a byre, in what used to be his office there, awaiting funeral – so you can examine both man and building at one time. I wish you joy of it. So, if there’s nothing further …?’
There was. ‘I believe my master asked you to provide me, and my driver here, with accommodation for the night. I take it there’s no actual mansio in the town? And to provide me with transport when I move on from here. I’m going to Portus Abonae, as I expect you know …’
He had turned back to face me. ‘To represent your patron at a wedding there?’ the man said wearily. ‘Indeed, we were well-informed of that. The second messenger could speak of little else. You are quite right, we have no mansio here, and the mutationis – back the way you’ve come – does not have beds at all. I’ve contacted a small civilian inn. It’s out of town, but it’s convenient, and they can find a room.’
The word he used was ‘cubicula’, in fact – which boded well enough. These ‘cubicles’ are tiny rooms, and rarely offer more than a blanket and a humble palliasse, or an even humbler pile of straw and reeds, and occasionally a pillow if one is fortunate. There is the usual problem with bugs and smells and dirt, and some inns merely have a curtain to divide the space, but the arrangement does afford a certain privacy. Better than a communal room, with just one mattress on the floor which travellers are obliged to share with other customers – drunks, pickpockets, prostitutes, whatever happens to arrive – which is the case in many small establishments.
‘Very good!’ I nodded. ‘See that my driver has directions to the place. He’ll need to stay tonight, though I’ve promised to return him after that. I presume I can rely upon some transport when he’s gone?’
‘We have an ox-cart, citizen, we use for our supplies. I’ll put that at your disposal if you wish. Or there’s a man from whom it would be possible to hire a travelling coach, though of course there would be a small expense.’
Meaning that he declined to pay the cost from army funds. I forced a smile again. ‘Your ox-cart would be excellent,’ I said, and had the satisfaction of seeing his surprise. ‘But that’s a matter for another day. For the moment, I have pressing tasks – especially if you wish me to release the corpse to your cremation pyre.’
The tesserarius gave another nod. ‘I’ll find a man to guide you to the house, and send a messenger to have the prisoner brought to you – though I’ll have to provide a guard for him, I suppose.’
‘You could fetch him on your ox-cart, possibly,’ I said. ‘That would speed our progress markedly. I don’t imagine Loftus is in much state to walk.’
‘Or better still, your guide can stay and ride out on your gig, when he has shown you to the tax collector’s house. Then he can both direct your driver to the villa and act as escort to the prisoner on the journey back. It may be a little cramped, but it will expedite affairs.’ He was clearly proud of having thought of this – leaving the responsibility with me – and for the first time began to bustle into life.
He called over to the sentry, who was busy now talking to other travellers – a fellow with a handcart full of skins, and an old woman with a basket of mushrooms on each arm. ‘You there, soldier – when you’ve finished there – go inside and summon Trinculus. Tell him he’s to travel with this citizen, explain what is required, and tell him he’s excused all other duties for the time.’ He turned to me again. ‘I’ll have him escort you to Abonae afterwards, as well. I understand that I’m required to provide you with protection on the road, and he can most easily be spared. And that, I think, is everything that you require, so now, if you’ll excuse me, citizen …’ He clicked his hobnailed sandals and disappeared into the guard tower again.
TWELVE
Trinculus, when he finally appeared, was obviously a fairly new recruit. He was young – so young that he could only recently have completed his induction to the ranks – with a mop of sandy hair and arms and legs that seemed too long for him. He wore an ill-assorted uniform: old-fashioned chain mail which did not fit him well, battered greaves, and a breastplate which had many dents in it, as if he’d bought it from a bigger veteran and simply had the armourer hammer it to size. (As probably he had – though I knew from Marcus that the army now issued uniforms to conscripts and volunteers who could not provide their own.)
You would have called him skinny, if it were not for the effects of the training he’d received – there were visible muscles on his arms and legs, and his neck and shoulder area was already unnaturally developed from keeping a heavy helmet up. By contrast his freckled face looked even thinner than it was, with nervous eyes that darted everywhere, and jutting ears that even leather helmet-flaps could not disguise. He wore a general expression of alarmed astonishment, like a dormouse trapped inside a fattening jar.
He hesitated for a moment at the guard-room door, then came across to peer up doubtfully at me. ‘I’m ordered to report to you, for duty, citizen.’ His voice was a surprise: light but distinctly gutteral – from the Germanic provinces, I guessed, though the Latin was as perfect as my own. ‘You wish to visit the tax collector’s house?’
I signalled that I did.
‘Then I will lead you there on foot. It isn’t very far and you can take the gig. The street is wide enough.’
‘Wheeled transport is permitted?’ I was used to Glevum and the regulations there.
He shrugged as if the question was a peculiar one. ‘This is a small place citizen – and it’s not market day. So, if you’d like to follow?’ He did not wait for a response but set off at a lope, and Victor had to quickly urge the gig across the bridge before the young soldier disappeared from view.
Uudum was a small place – smaller than I’d thought from the size of the surrounding earthworks. There was no proper entrance arch, simply a gap in the rampart, and we were in the little town – if it could claim to be called a town at all. No packed houses and apartment blocks here, only a collection of ramshackle dwellings in separate plots, many with chickens scratching in the dirt. There was a smell of tanning in the air, so there was obviously a tannery somewhere, and hammering suggested that there might be a forge, though neither was immediately visible. There appeared to be only a single road across the town, so I need not have worried about losing Trinculus. He was clearly visible, ahead.
Towards the centre of the settlement, the buildings grew a little more tightly packed and, though still effectively a single street – were now backed by a smaller alley running parallel and linked by passageways so narrow a fat man couldn’t pass. (Not that it mattered – I saw that many of them were blocked by midden-piles.) Here, too, was a solitary street-stall selling food, and one or two small shops
, whose owners glanced up hopefully from their open counters as we passed, but their wares were commonplace: piles of woven baskets, bowls or saucepans spilling out onto the road. There was little else in evidence, except one scruffy wine shop with a tavern at the back (which was open but appeared to have no customers!) and a surprising number of little roadside shrines. There seemed to be one on every corner that we passed, each one to a different deity.
Ahead of us Trinculus was still hurrying along. There were few other people on the street – beyond the fungus-seller and the fellow with the skins that we’d seen at the bridge, and a bored slave scurrying somewhere with a water jug.
Just as I was thinking there was nothing in the town, we came to what was clearly the central area – and here to my surprise was quite a handsome square. Not quite a forum, just an open space, but there was a fountain and a proper little temple on one side, with one or two imposing Roman townhouses standing opposite. On either side there was provision for a row of market stalls, though the only occupant today was a swarthy butcher, who (judging by the prices he had chalked up on a wall) seemed to deal exclusively in different bits of sheep. His solitary customer watched the gig arrive and clearly saw an opportunity for dramatic haggling.
‘Call this a lamb’s heart?’ He picked up the bleeding lump, declaiming very loudly so that we could hear. ‘Ancient ewe more like. I’ll give you half of what you’re asking – and I’m cheating myself then …’
But I never heard the outcome. Trinculus had stopped outside a house by now and Victor had brought the gig-mare to a halt.
The driver slid down from his seat to help me to the street. ‘I should take your parcels with you, citizen,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘One cannot be too careful. I’ll have to take this soldier to the villa now.’ He gestured to Trinculus who was rapping at the door.
It was the largest of the Roman-style houses, and in Glevum would have had an entrance court and gate, but here it simply faced onto the street. It was squeezed between two larger blocks, which might have been market offices or even granaries, though it was hard to tell. (There was no evidence of stairs or side-doors leading from the street so they were not apartment blocks – and Uudum was too small to have a council room or court.)
Trinculus was waiting impatiently for me, making no effort to help me with my awkward load. ‘This is the place, citizen. There should be someone here.’ He rapped the door again as he spoke, and almost at once it was opened from within.
I had expected a slave or household doorkeeper but – of course – the army had taken charge here now. The man who stood in front of us was a soldier in full kit, who looked from me to Trinculus with dark, suspicious eyes. ‘About time too,’ he muttered, as soon as the military greetings and the password were exchanged. ‘Are you the relief? I’ve been here all day with no one but the corpse for company.’
Trinculus shook his head. ‘I’m only here to guide this citizen – the man from Glevum we were told about. He wants to view the body, and look round the premises.’
The soldier sighed despondently and turned to me. ‘Citizen, is it? I’m sorry, sir – I did not realise. With that cloak, I thought perhaps you were a friend who’d come to mourn – though if you were, you’d be the only one. The result of being a tax collector, I suppose. No one but the undertaker’s women to lament at all – and even they have given up and gone, saying they were only hired for one day, and to send for them again when the funeral begins.’ He shook his head and seemed to recollect himself. ‘But if you’re the person we’ve been waiting for, come and see him for yourself – and then perhaps we can dispose of him, before his ghost decides we’ve shown him disrespect and starts to haunt the house.’ He stood aside and gestured that I should walk ahead of him.
I glanced at Victor, who was still standing by the gig-mare, holding her, but he simply raised his hand as if to say farewell and motioned to Trinculus to climb up into my former seat. Then he got up himself and the gig drove briskly off. They had gone to fetch Loftus back – at my request, of course – but for the moment I was on my own.
‘Straight on down the passage, citizen,’ the soldier said, as though I might have been tempted to dive off to my right, into the little cell the doorkeeper would use, with its peephole out into the street and a tiny wooden stool the only furniture.
I walked into the house. Few candles had been lit and it was dark and shadowy. The entrance passage led into a waiting room (a sort of atrium, if this had been a normal dwelling) – a largish area, almost entirely occupied by benches round the walls. There was a small niche in the corner (for the household gods no doubt, though there was no statue or altar in the space), and provision for a brazier on the other side, but those were the only concessions to domesticity. Even the floor was covered with rushes from the stream – like any poor man’s house – though that might have been to muffle noise in deference to the dead.
Nor did there appear to be more ornament elsewhere. Through the half-shuttered window opposite I could see that the room gave out onto a longish narrow yard, with what was clearly a stable and kitchen block beyond, but there was no sign of a fountain and only straggling bushes instead of garden beds.
‘Left now, citizen,’ the soldier said, indicating a chamber to that side, where a taper was burning in a holder on the wall.
I obeyed and found myself inside a spacious room. The shutters here were closed, but the candlelight revealed painted friezes and a patterned floor, and rows of shelves and niches for storing record scrolls. This was the tax collector’s private office, unmistakeably. A huge carved desk-table, with ornamental metal strips on front and sides, was the only furniture. It clearly should have stood beneath the window-space – one could see the marks of it against the painted wall – but it was pushed aside into one corner now, to make space around the central object in the room – a bier, and on it the shrouded form of what had been Acacius Flauccus.
More candles were burning at his head and feet, and the air was full of the scent of funerary spices, oils and herbs – almost, but not quite, strong enough to mask the scent of death. Whoever the tesserarius had hired to prepare the corpse for the funeral had done it properly.
Having put down my parcels on the desk, I bent to move the cloth from round the head, but I was interrupted by a startled gasp. I turned. The guard was looking horrified.
‘You are intending to unwrap the face?’
I was surprised to find him openly disturbed. Any Roman is accustomed to looking at the dead (a Roman soldier in particular!): the corpses of the wealthy are displayed to lie in state, precisely so that mourners can have a final view. Nor is suicide a special cause of fear: it is sometimes considered an honourable end, as when a defeated general falls upon his sword, or a man takes hemlock to preserve his family’s legacy and prevent it being divided up among his creditors. So what was disturbing my companion so?
Perhaps the fact that this was no ‘heroic’ death? Hanging is not an honourable way to kill yourself – a woman’s method, to the Roman mind (which is precisely why Druid rebels dangle dead victims from the trees – a final insult to the unhappy corpse). And this suicide was more cowardly than most – Acacius had stolen money from the state and was attempting to evade the punishment – so he could hardly expect a welcome into paradise. Was the guard afraid displeasure might leak out from the Shades and somehow attach itself to us? Soldiers are famously superstitious, where the Furies are concerned.
I was not long in doubt. ‘Would you object, if I turned the other way?’ the man said, anxiously. ‘The women have prepared the corpse and I’ve kept due watch on him. I’ve even kept the candles lit throughout. But unwrapping him again is showing disrespect. And since there’s been no funeral yet, his spirit’s still abroad. If it is offended, it might put a curse on me.’
And me, in that case, I thought wryly. But I simply said, ‘Better still, why don’t you go back to the front door and keep watch for the gig when it returns? They’re bringing the former s
teward here. I want to question him. He’ll know, for instance, if anything’s missing from the house.’
‘Missing?’ The guard had turned away, relieved, but now he whirled back in alarm. ‘What could be missing? I thought Flauccus had gambled everything and lost?’
I thought quickly. This man was terrified of curses as it was. If he realised that I thought this might yet be homicide, it would trouble him still more. (A decent funeral can put even a suicide to rest, but the ghosts of murdered men are said to walk the earth eternally – unless and until their deaths are properly avenged.) If the guard supposed that there might be an uneasy spirit in this room, he would be unlikely ever to venture here again. (Indeed, it was something I did not care to think about myself!)
I temporised. ‘Flauccus gambled with the tax money, according to the note. But his furniture was sent to Glevum, I believe.’ I tried to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. ‘Though not quite all of it. That desk, for instance, seems to have remained. So there may be other items, too, to be accounted for.’ I was thinking of that missing carriage in particular.
The guard was reassured by such practical concerns. ‘I see,’ he said, and went off, visibly relieved.
But I had work to do. I took a deep breath, murmured an apology to any phantoms that might be hovering nearby, then knelt down by the corpse and pulled the covers back.
Acacius Flauccus had not been a handsome man in life. I had never actually met him then, but it was obviously so. His nose and eyebrows were too large, his eyes too close together and his chin too small. Certainly he had recently been ill – I had remembered that from Marcus’s remarks – but he was clearly short and weedy anyway, with thinning hair and warts, and was not improved by having been dead for several days. And hanging is never a pretty way to die.
Mercifully the face was no longer black and blue, since the congested blood had long since drained away, though a strange bruised duskiness remained and the piggy eyes still bulged beneath the lids that covered them. I moved the binding cloth from around the jaw and the mouth sagged open in a disgusting way, showing the ritual coin on the blackened, swollen tongue. I was momentarily startled, though I should not have been. The stiffness of the body had dissipated now: it was an effect that I have noticed in such circumstances before. At least, I told myself, that made it easier to move the shroud and get a better look.
The Price of Freedom Page 11
