He was dressed in a handsome dark-blue tunic, with silver embroidery at the neck and hems – suggesting that Acacius Flauccus had expensive tastes. That might accord with the accounts of gambling. Just above the neckline was what I was looking for, a deep red line which marked the ligature. Two lines in fact: one straight and low around the neck and the other cutting obliquely upwards with a bruise behind the ear, where the knot had obviously been. Exactly as one might expect if someone hanged himself. So why was I convinced that there was something not quite right?
Two lines, I told myself. But there was nothing particularly notable in that – a cord that passes twice around the neck can make a double mark. Except that the bottom one here was unnaturally low and deep – almost as though somebody had come up from behind and …? I took a closer look. The funeral women had done the best they could, but it was still possible to see the pattern of the ligature – not rope, but something woven, by the look of it. A strip of fabric – possibly a belt? The sort of thing that might make a garrotte?
I shook my head. It wasn’t possible. The man had left that note. I was inventing things. I had come with the impression that this was not what it seemed, and I was finding reasons to convince myself.
For the sake of thoroughness, though – which Marcus would expect – I continued my examination of the corpse, gently turning it to get a better view. There were no wounds, no other injuries – apart from a few bruises on his arms and back, as if he’d fallen in attempting to tie up the noose. Or – my rebellious mind insisted – as if there’d been a struggle, possibly? Someone thrusting a knee into the victim’s back to stop him fighting as the ligature was tightened round his neck? Flauccus was elderly and slight – and had been ill, besides. He would not have been difficult to overcome. And it would have been very easy to hang him afterwards, both to disguise the mark and to suggest a suicide.
I shook my head at my own imaginings, and turned the body gently onto its back again. It flopped grotesquely, but I tried to rearrange it as nearly as possible to the position that I had found it in. In doing so, I had to move the arms and realised that the bruises there would fit my theory too. In fact, when I looked closely, I could convince myself that I was not looking at one single bruise on each, but several smaller bruises in a line – like vicious fingermarks.
On impulse I picked up a flaccid hand and gazed at it. The funeral women had washed and cleaned it well, but surely there was something under the index nail? And that finger, and that? Little traces of something reddish-black, suspiciously like remnants of dried blood? I looked around with sudden interest, but there was nothing in the room that might account for it. No ink, no tinctures, pigments or even sealing wax. Presumably those essential items had gone to Glevum with the rest of Flauccus’s effects.
Blood, then? That seemed distinctly probable (although, of course, impossible to prove – even if I could remove those traces from the fingernails, there was not enough for me to test by tasting it). But if so, then the blood was not his own. There was some evidence of blood-seep round the ligatures, but none of the clawing and scratching that one might expect, if the would-be suicide had changed his mind, too late, and tried to tear the noose away. Nor – although I checked most carefully again – were there grazes on any other portion of the corpse. Flauccus had dug his nails into someone else’s flesh, almost certainly while attempting to defend himself.
I sat back on my heels and tried to think. I was convinced by this time that my hunch was right, and this was murder, not a suicide. But who would profit by the death? Only a robber, as far as I could see.
Acacius Flauccus was likely to have made a will of course: all Roman citizens of any rank did that (they often make a series, altering bequests depending on what favours or patronage they need – especially if, like Flauccus, they have no natural heirs). In the circumstances his was likely to be challenged in the courts and his possessions sold to help defray the missing tax – but it might help my understanding of the man if I could find a copy of the document, since creditors are often mentioned as major legatees, both as a way of repaying what is owed and also of persuading them to wait. Even gambling debts can sometimes be deflected in this way, and Flauccus was shrewd enough to have attempted that.
I rewrapped the corpse as neatly as I could (making sure to shut that gaping jaw again) and began to search the scroll-pots on the shelves. Most of them were empty. I turned my attention to the contents of the desk. There was a record of receipts, neatly written on a roll of bark-paper, a register of taxable properties within the area, and another careful list of those who had and had not paid. And that was all. No sign of any will.
I was still looking when the guard returned to say the gig had come.
THIRTEEN
I turned to welcome the steward as he was ushered in, but I was so shocked at the change in his appearance, that my words of greeting froze.
I scarcely recognised Loftus as the man I’d seen before. He was as tall as ever and his nose as hooked, but the blue eyes – once so piercing – looked tired and faded now, and the upright stance and air of effortless authority were gone. He was pale and dirty, clearly shaken from his sojourn in the cell and his wrists and ankles bore the evidence of chains. His dark hair had been shaved off to the scalp – and presumably sold to the nearest wig-makers – a humiliation usually reserved for female slaves or slave-youths so handsome that they awaken jealousy (though on some estates the land-slaves are annually sheared, to provide another cash-crop). For a high-ranking steward, though, it was calculatedly demeaning – a visible symbol of disgrace.
He still wore the pale-blue steward’s tunic that he’d been wearing when we met in Glevum: a long-sleeved belted robe, adorned with embroidered bands of darker colour at the neck and hem, and reaching almost to his calves. Then it had been the height of elegance, but now it was crumpled, filthy, smirched with mud and grime, with wisps of mucky straw adhering to it here and there.
All the same he made an attempt at dignity. ‘You wished to see me, citizen?’ He sketched a little bow, moving stiffly as though it gave him pain. ‘We met before in happier times, I think. But I owe you gratitude. I understand that I have you to thank for my temporary release.’
‘I am sent to make enquiries about your master’s death,’ I said, sensing that business-like normality would be the best approach. ‘I hoped that you could help me. You found him. I believe?’
He nodded. ‘I did, and of course I’ll help in any way I can.’ He glanced at the shrouded figure on the bier. ‘May I look on him a moment and offer my respects?’
‘Later,’ I assured him. ‘First I want to hear your full account of things.’ That sounded unfeeling so I added, with a nod towards the guard outside, ‘The man on duty will expect no less. That’s the only reason the army authorised your liberty.’
‘But I fear there’s nothing new that I can tell you, citizen. I came in from the slave market, suspecting nothing wrong, thinking he’d gone ahead to Glevum as arranged – and while I was making a last inspection of the place, I came in and found him hanging there.’ He gestured to a high beam above our heads, the central one of three that supported the attic rooms above. There was a stout metal hook attached to it.
‘And the stool?’
‘Was lying on the floor, upended, under it.’ He pointed to the spot.
‘So what happened to that afterwards, do you suppose? I notice there’s no sign of any stool here now.’
For the first time the phantom of a smile lit his gaunt features. ‘There is not much mystery about that, citizen. The guard is using it. I saw it in his waiting cell, as I came in.’
‘Of course!’ I had noted it myself, without realising the part that it had played. But it prompted a question. ‘I suppose, as loyal steward, you cut your master down at once?’
‘I would have done so, citizen – though there clearly was no hope of saving him – but I could not reach the noose.’
‘Not even with the desk?’
/>
‘That was in its proper place then, over by the window opposite and it’s far too heavy for one man to move alone.’ There was something shifty in his manner suddenly, as if he knew something that he wasn’t telling me.
‘And too expensive to transport?’ I prompted, suddenly guessing the answer to another mystery. ‘That’s why it wasn’t taken to Glevum with the rest?’
He gave me a sideways look but answered readily. ‘I doubt that would even fit out through the door and passageway. My master had it constructed to his own design – the craftsmen, brought especially from Londinium, came and built it in the room. They were the ones who installed the hook in fact, to help them to manipulate the larger planks of wood – they had to bring them, from the court, in through the window-space – but he always regretted afterwards that he’d had it made so big. Its size was inconvenient, but it was imposing, which was the intention, I suppose.’
I was still pressing for whatever was disturbing him. ‘And the stool – I don’t imagine that he usually sat on such a lowly thing?’
A shake of the shaven head. ‘He kept that back, so there was somewhere he could sit to make the last adjustments here before he left. He said he wished to count the tax money again, to make sure that he was tendering the accurate amount – and the stool was adequate for that.’
‘So – as far as you knew, he had the money, then?’
‘He was concerned that several small sums were overdue, but otherwise I know for certain it was in the coffer-box, ready sorted and counted into bags. I helped him check through the accounts the night before. But my master was always one to double-check.’ He looked at me a moment, then dropped his glance again. ‘I assume that the man that he’d been gambling with, heard that he was leaving and demanded instant payment – with menaces, no doubt – so Acacius was forced to give him everything, including all the money from the tax. Always knowing that he would have to kill himself, because he could not live with the disgrace.’
I had my own opinions about that, but I wished to hear this story to the end. I judged that Loftus was telling me the truth, as he perceived it anyway, and though (for the reasons that I’d outlined to Marcus at the start) I was fairly certain he was not involved, I still had that feeling that I was missing something here. ‘So he sat here on this unaccustomed stool …?’
‘Exactly, citizen. It might fit in the carriage with him, if there was sufficient space, but it was not of any consequence if it were left behind. At least that’s what he told me at the time – though I realise now he had a different use in mind. That stool was almost the only thing that wasn’t sent ahead; when I went to cut him down I realised that I didn’t have a knife – I don’t carry one, of course – and even the kitchen goods were packed and gone.’ He paused. I realised tears were brimming in his eyes, though whether for his master or himself, I could not tell.
‘So …?’ I prompted, more sympathetically.
‘I ran into the street and found a man who lives close by – someone my master had friendly dealings with – and brought him in to show him what I’d found.’ It may have been because of the difference in my tone, but Loftus seemed to be talking much more freely, suddenly.
I made another sympathetic noise.
‘He had an attendant with him, naturally, and it was he who saw the writing-tablet on the floor – I was so upset I hadn’t noticed it. Between us we managed to move the desk across to underneath the hook, and bring the body down. It wasn’t easy because the corpse was getting stiff. Meanwhile the neighbour sent a message to the tesserarius – and the rest I think you know. The slave and I had hardly got my master to the floor, before the army came and marched me off and locked me up. They seemed sure that I knew where the money was, or at least the names of those my master lost it to – but there was nothing more I could tell them, however much they threatened to beat it out of me.’
So Loftus had not, after all, been flogged. Marcus’s message had spared him that, at least. I was glad of it – for his sake of course, but also (selfishly) for mine. He was not a young man and under torture he might quickly have succumbed – if not to death then to inventing things to satisfy his questioners – and then I would never have been able to rely on his account.
‘All the same, there may be aspects of all this that only you can know. For instance, did your master make a formal will?’
I hoped to surprise him by the question, but Loftus answered willingly enough. ‘He did. A new one too. Not very long ago. Though not because of any gambling debts. The previous one had been in favour of the Emperor Commodus – in return for the tax-collection licence, I believe – and when the Emperor was assassinated …’
‘It had to be revoked?’
‘Exactly, citizen. My master drew up a new one when he went to Glevum last, to render his half-year accounts. He was anxious to have things properly arranged, as he was already feeling ill – the first signs of that fever which seized him afterwards. So the will was duly registered before a magistrate, sealed and witnessed by seven citizens, all of them members of the local curia.’
I nodded, calculating swiftly in my head. The old Roman calendar accounted the Kalends of Mars as New Year’s Day – of course that altered centuries ago – but, bizarrely, for official finances that system still pertains. So September (as the name suggests) is the seventh fiscal month, when half-year tax falls due. That date made perfect sense. If Flauccus went to Glevum then, it would be the first time since the news from Rome had reached Britannia. And – in the absence of close acquaintances – members of the curia, who at least knew who he was, would satisfy the criteria for formal witnesses.
‘Leaving everything to the Imperial Purse, this time, perhaps?’ I enquired. ‘If Flauccus had employed that well-tried formula, and not referred to the Emperor by name, his first version wouldn’t have had to be annulled.’
But Loftus shook his head. ‘He left it to the Glevum colonia instead,’ he said, to my surprise. ‘He had decided to retire there, as you know, and he hoped to leave his mark. Some to be used for memorial games and the rest for public works – except a small amount that he set aside for a new fountain, here. He financed the existing one, in fact, though it did not win him the public favour that he hoped. People simply grumbled that they’d paid for it themselves!’
‘He confided the contents of the will to you?’ I was surprised, again! A tax official is obviously required to read and write, so Flauccus hardly required an amanuensis to frame the document. And it’s unusual for a servant – however senior – to be in his owner’s confidence where money is concerned. Though it was conceivable: Loftus had been sent to negotiate with me, and to make a payment on that villa too – so he had been handling large quantities of his master’s cash.
My question brought a wry smile to the steward’s lips. ‘He told me what was in it, citizen, because I was also a beneficiary. He had bequeathed me freedom – at least he said he had. Not that it makes the slightest difference now. Even if the will were found, it would be set aside – since he deliberately killed himself to avoid a debt to Rome.’
That was something I had not thought about – a suicide’s will is normally as good as anyone’s. But a man who owes money directly to the state (rather than to a private creditor) is – like slaves and common soldiers – explicitly forbidden to destroy himself. (I remember Marcus remarking on it once, and privately wondering how that law could be enforced!) But, as Loftus was reminding me, if such a person does succeed in taking his own life, everything he owns is immediately forfeit to the Imperial Purse, regardless of what provisions might be laid down in his will.
So Glevum would not get its games or Uudum its waterspout. Nor Loftus his freedom. The opposite, in fact. A slave is one of his master’s assets, naturally, so Loftus would now officially belong to Emperor Severus. But, by tradition, responsibility for the disposal of human chattels – too expensive to transport – falls to the highest-ranking local fiscal officer, who has the option of keeping th
e choicest for himself, in return for forwarding the proceeds of the rest. In this instance, with the tax collector dead, that was now the principalis at the bridge, so – as Loftus was the only asset left – the officer would be presumed to own him from now on, and was free to do with him exactly as he pleased.
I wondered if Loftus was aware of that. Almost certainly. As a tax-collector’s steward, he obviously knew more about such laws than most. But I had news for Loftus that might change everything.
‘Loftus,’ I said, ‘it must be proved, of course, but I don’t believe that we’ve been right about the way your master died.’ He was about to interrupt me, but I raised a hand. ‘Answer me two questions, and I will explain. First, and this has exercised me from the start: what happened to your master’s carriage, do you think? It was seen to leave the house.’
The steward stared at me. ‘Of course. How foolish! I had not thought of that. It was not in the stable block when I came back, and neither was the horse – but at that time I simply thought that he’d set off in it. But then I found his body, and I thought of nothing else! I’m sorry, citizen. I have no explanation I can offer you.’
‘I wondered if he might have sold it on and hired one for the trip? If he’d disposed of the slave that drove it, that might make good sense.’
Loftus shook his shaven head. ‘There was no question of his hiring transport for himself, though I was to do so – with the slave money – and follow him as soon as possible. In fact I’d already made arrangements for the hire. But I did not take the coachman to the slave market. He was retained to drive my master one last time.’ He brightened. ‘Unless he and the carriage were taken in part-payment of the debt? Or – on reflection – perhaps my master sent the coach driver away, on some imaginary errand, in order to have no possible witnesses on the premises? That’s seems the most likely explanation of events. But there was a second question?’
The Price of Freedom Page 12
