‘Perhaps she was not wearing the plaid dress when he killed her,’ Gwellia said.
Junio exchanged a glance with me. ‘Minimus says she wore a tunic later on,’ he said. ‘Apparently he saw her with Aulus at the gate the morning of the civic feast, not long after the luggage cart had gone.’
I nodded. ‘The day we think the murder must have taken place. And she was spoken to by a carter afterwards – he took a message from her to the farm.’
Gwellia looked thoughtful. ‘So she was seen as recently as that? Then her mother must be wrong. She said Morella had been talking to a man in the forum market when the snake act was there – by my calculations, that was two days before the feast – and when her father heard about it he beat her savagely. Then, the next morning, she had disappeared. Her poor mother was terrified she’d perished in the night, and her father had done something with the body while they slept.’ She raised her eyes to me. ‘I think she’ll be relieved to know that isn’t true. She blamed herself for telling the father what she’d seen.’
I frowned. ‘But surely there was a message from the girl, saying that she had run away to join an entertainment troupe?’
‘Only the father heard that message, as far as I can see. He simply came and told the family what he claimed the carter said. Morella’s mother was convinced he’d made it up. Then when you came and said that she’d approached the dancing girls, you gave her hope again – until she realised that you thought the girl was dead. Now she is torn between despair and hope, and terrified of what her husband might have done. She married him against her parents’ wishes, it appears, but he was wealthy and she persuaded them – then learned too late that he was miserly and cruel.’
So miserly he’d stolen money from a family tomb, I thought. But something more pressing had occurred to me. ‘That message from the carter – it might be possible to check. Perhaps I should have looked into it before, though he might be hard to trace . . .’ I stopped. ‘Great Mars! Why am I such a fool!’
‘What is it, Father?’ Junio enquired.
‘That carter! I think I might know who it is – in general terms at least. Something that Aulus said to me. He talked about a farmer from the hills who went past here each day, taking a load of produce to the market in the town!’
‘And you think that load might once have concealed a corpse?’
I shook my head. ‘Unless he killed her, I doubt it very much. But if we can trace him, we can ask him what he knows, and whether Morella really sent a message home with him.’
Junio looked puzzled. ‘But what makes you think that this farmer is the carter that took the message from the girl? There must be many carts that come and go along the lane.’
‘But very few from there,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen the area where these people farm. It’s miles along the lane and up a winding track. Who but a farmer would go that way at all, and be well known enough to give a message to? And Morella’s father mentioned that one farmer had a cart – and sons – and so had the time to go to market with fresh produce every day.’ I paused, to give added emphasis to this. ‘He would have to pass the gate here, if he was doing that. There’s no other way to reach the market, without taking twice as long.’
Gwellia nodded. ‘He would not want to make the journey any longer than he need, especially if he was coming and going there every day. Obviously he’d take the best road he could find.’
I was staring at her. ‘Coming and going! Of course! I must be getting old, or I would have thought of it before. Junio, bring your mother to the gatehouse when I send for you – assuming that she still wants to change her clothes.’
Gwellia looked flustered. ‘I must wear a darker robe. I’ll have to come in my pink stola, but I have a deep blue over-tunic I can put on top which will be a bit more suitable. But why the hurry, husband? What do you propose to do?’
‘I will wait out in the lane for the wine cart and the letters that Marcus and Lucius want to send to Glevum with me. It occurs to me that I might see this famous farmer in his cart. If he goes in to the market, then he must come home again – it might take all day to sell a load of produce, I suppose, but he wouldn’t choose to travel on those roads in the dark.’
Gwellia looked doubtful. ‘He may just unload his produce in the morning and go home. Have a friend or relation with a market stall, perhaps?’
‘In which case I shall ask around till I hear news of him. If not, there is a chance I’ll meet him on the road. He might be passing at this moment, while we are talking here. I’ll go outside at once and keep a watch for him.’
It seemed a useful strategy, and I had hopes of it. I went out to the gate where a pair of garden slaves were occupied in fixing a bough of evergreen, under the chief steward’s watchful eye.
‘A sign that we’re in mourning,’ the steward said to me, as if I required an explanation for this activity. ‘It isn’t proper cypress, like they’d have in Rome, but we don’t have a lot of cypress in this part of the world. This is the nearest to it, so the mistress says.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that visitor from Rome will make of it, but that’s the mistress’s orders. I just do as I’m told.’
I murmured something non-committal in reply, and went to take up my station in the lane. It would have been immensely convenient, of course, if the farmer and his cart had just happened to come by, but the Fates were not spinning in my favour, it appeared.
The road was resolutely empty. Not even a glimpse of Aulus and his makeshift bier.
Finally the wine merchant came lumbering down the farm track in his cart. He was dark and surly and quite belligerent – not at all pleased at having being ordered to carry passengers. However, rank and money are effective arguments and Marcus, as usual, was going to have his way.
The man was even less delighted at being asked to wait, first for Niveus to come running out with Marcus’s and Lucius’s letters in his hand, then for him to disappear again and fetch my wife and son.
At last we were assembled and ready to begin. My family squashed up on the driver’s seat, while Niveus climbed up among the wine amphorae in their racks. I did not demand the letters – there was time enough for that – though I could see him clutching them from where I sat: both scratched on wax tablets and both sealed up with such care that you would think they were concerned with affairs of state, and not merely a request to have me brought back here and a letter of condolence to some relatives in Rome.
We lurched down the lane to the roundhouse, and Gwellia and Junio were duly delivered to the enclosure gate. Maximus and Cilla came out to help them down, and I took the opportunity to send in for some food. So I was munching a welcome piece of bread and cheese when Niveus came to sit beside me and we could talk again.
‘Do you know a farm cart that brings produce to the town?’ I said, between mouthfuls, as we set off again and made our way towards the military road. It was the long route to the town, but by far the safest one since the cart was piled with racks and racks of fragile pots of wine. ‘I know you haven’t been working at the villa very long, but you might have noticed, since it goes past every day.’
Niveus nodded. ‘I think I know the one. Rather a battered-looking vehicle – and the farmer’s old, as well. Tall and withered, with a creaky voice. I’ve seen it several times. I even spoke to him one afternoon when there was a delay with litters at the gate. The farmer was on his way back from the market and had to wait for us. He wasn’t very happy, though I apologised.’
‘Well, keep looking out for him as we drive along,’ I said. ‘I want to have a word with him if I get a chance.’ But we’d got to the military road by now, and there was no sign of the cart.
There was a good deal more coming and going on that larger thoroughfare: slow ox-wagons and donkey-carts lumbering along, piled high with goods to be delivered in the town, in no especial hurry. Most were aiming to arrive outside the walls at dusk, because wheeled transport was not permitted in the colonia in daylight hour
s and they would otherwise have to join the queue outside the gate. Foot-travellers and horsemen had the opposite idea – hurrying to get there as soon as possible, since strangers were often turned back after dark and forced to seek accommodation in the seedy inns outside the walls. And there were people coming the other way as well – though no sign of the cart that we were looking for.
I was alarmed in case we came across a group of soldiers on the march – any military traffic had priority. For one thing we would have had to retreat on to the margins till they passed – where there was a good chance that our axles would bog down in the mud – and for another its simple presence would have delayed us very much, and separated us neatly from anything on the far side of the road. A marching unit, though it always keeps up a spanking pace, is often accompanied by carts full of unofficial wives and their supplies (a soldier cannot marry until he leaves the service, of course), to say nothing of the tradesmen and general hangers-on, who follow the peacetime army everywhere it goes. Such a procession can take a long time to go by.
Today, however, there was no such problem and the sun had hardly dipped by half an hour before we found ourselves bowling down the road towards the town.
There was the inevitable gaggle and turmoil at the gate and the road was almost blocked. Wagons which had got there early were waiting for dark, and the unloaded carts of market traders were drawn up at one side pending the reappearance of their owners when the forum shut. Many of them were battered, and I glanced at Niveus, hoping he would point out the one we were looking for, but he made no sign.
Closer to the gate, and closer still. Here there were hiring carriages and litters jostling for trade – and, taking up the very middle of the road, a smart private conveyance with a bored slave at the reins. And foot-travellers always struggling to get through – women with baskets full of eggs, a thin man with an even thinner cow, two slave boys carrying a huge baulk of wood.
The wine merchant stopped the cart and looked resentfully at me. ‘Here you are, citizen. This is as far as I can go. I have a storehouse on the east side of the town. I’ll have to hurry before the gates are shut – not really made for passengers, these carts. So . . .’ He held his hand out, hoping for a tip, but I knew that Marcus had paid him earlier and I had nothing I could give him. I got down hastily, and so did Niveus.
‘I’ll mention it to His Excellence when I get back,’ I said, and saw the man flush sullenly as he drove away, forcing his way back through the throng by flourishing his whip, and loudly cursing at other drivers as he passed.
A fat guard was trying to keep order at the gate, red-faced and hollering in an effort to be heard above the shouts of drivers and the rumbling of wheels. ‘No pushing there, or I’ll arrest the lot of you!’ he shouted, waving his baton as a sort of threat. Then he saw my toga, and his manner changed. ‘Make way for the citizen. You, with the handcart – get it out of there.’ He began to wield his weapon against shoulders, backs and legs, and, very suddenly, the crowd obeyed. A sort of pathway opened up to allow me past. I sent Niveus over to deliver the wax tablets to the guard (‘tell him they are for the attention of the commander of the garrison’) and set off ahead of him through the archway in the gate – just as a horseman came the other way.
I stepped aside to let the rider through – I may be a citizen, but I know my place, and this was an expensive animal. A rich man or his messenger by the look of it – I glimpsed a hooded figure in a handsome cloak. I crammed myself against the woman with the eggs, and flinched as he went flashing past within an inch of me.
There was no time to straighten up again. There was a pursuit in progress – that was clear to see. A pair of sturdy townsmen came charging after him, urged on by a puffing, plumpish woman in a shawl who brought up the rear. ‘Stop him! Stop that rider!’ But he was out of sight by now. They rushed into the gap the passing horse had made, using their elbows mercilessly to force their own way through, and the shouting and excitement moved off towards the gate.
I extricated myself from the egg-seller for a second time, and was in the act of smoothing my toga down when I heard a shrill voice calling my name.
‘Citizen! Libertus! Master!’ I spun round to see where the words were coming from. The little pageboy was standing at the arch, waving wildly and shouting after me with all his might, though his voice was almost lost in the murmur of the crowd.
‘What is it, Niveus?’ I bellowed in my turn.
But he was already dashing off, shouting and gesticulating, following the horse. The crowd surged forward and I lost sight of him.
Chapter Twenty-three
It was a good deal quieter once inside the gates, so I walked a little way, then stood to one side of the thoroughfare and waited for Niveus to come back.
He didn’t appear. I waited longer, wishing – again – I had a purse with me. I had enjoyed my little meal of bread and cheese, but the smells from the hot-pie sellers passing in the street – and even from the hot-soup stall nearby – were reminding me that I hadn’t eaten much.
Still Niveus didn’t come. I would give him a proper scolding when he did, I thought. Trust him to be caught up in the excitement of a passing chase, and just abandon me! Junio would never have left me on my own like this.
People were beginning to turn and stare at me – the man with the handcart in particular, since he’d been forced to let me through, and here I was standing stock-still in his way. I craned, trying to pick the page out in the crowd beneath the arch. Pity he wasn’t wearing his crimson uniform, I thought – and realised suddenly why Marcus always chose that striking colour for his private messengers.
I stepped up on to the pavement to get a better view – good Roman pavements are always a little raised, so that pedestrians can walk dry-shod above the level of rainwater and mud and the inevitable traces of passing animals – though Glevum was not too bad in that regard. An urchin came round the colonia every day, collecting up the sweepings to sell to farmers round about. I could see him busy in the distance now, armed with a home-made handcart and a battered spade. It was a sign that business was nearly over for the day.
There was still no sign of Niveus. I cursed myself for having let him slip away from me like that – though, in truth, I could hardly have prevented him. I was just wondering how I should proceed – whether to go and find the slaves’ guild now, or whether to stop and hunt for Niveus – when the question was answered for me in a surprising way.
The fat guard from the gateway came shouldering through the crowd, standing on tiptoe to look up and down the street. When he caught sight of me, his face relaxed and he came over to me self-importantly.
‘I am sent to find you, citizen, and take you to the gatehouse as soon as possible. You are Libertus the pavement-maker, I believe?’
I indicated – rather nervously – that this was the case. ‘My patron is Marcus Aurelius Septimus,’ I added, making it clear that I could call on powerful protection and support. I learned long ago that it was always wise to mention this, especially where the military was concerned. ‘In fact, I brought a letter from him to the commander of the guard.’ I was sincerely wishing that I’d taken charge of it myself, and not left it in the page’s custody.
The guard’s next words made me wish it even more. ‘I don’t see any letter in your possession, citizen.’
‘My attendant had it – he’s delivering it now. I thought that he had given it to you.’ It sounded feeble, and I knew it did.
He grinned, a little grimly. ‘That’s interesting, citizen. I’m glad you told me that. We’ve got someone in custody who’s known to be His Excellence’s slave – and did deliver a letter with his seal on it – but is now claiming your protection and saying you’ll pay the costs.’
I groaned. What expense had Niveus got me into now? Broken eggs or something, probably, and no means to pay. Well, I hadn’t either. I had come without a purse – I was not expecting to be in the town today. Perhaps I could borrow something from the council
lor who was asked to take me back – if I could get that request delivered before it was too late.
‘Niveus was bringing you that note on my behalf,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could make sure . . .’ I tailed off in surprise. The fat guard was shaking his grizzled head at me.
‘Not as I understand it, citizen,’ he said, ‘and Niveus is not the name he gave, as I recall. You wouldn’t call him snowy anyway, from what I’ve seen of him – though there was another boy who answered that description, I suppose. He was the one who told us that we could find you here.’ He was tapping his baton on his palm now, in a gesture which reminded me of Marcus very much. ‘I don’t know who our prisoner is, but you come along with me and you will soon find out.’
I was still pondering. It wasn’t Pulchrus – he’d gone overseas. Could it be the messenger who’d come from Rome that day? He’d brought a letter to Glevum under seal, and it was just possible he hadn’t left the town. But I’d never met him – why should he ask for me? I didn’t like the sound of this at all. ‘I’m waiting for my attendant,’ I began. ‘And I have pressing business in the town . . .’
He tucked his baton in his belt and drew his dagger out instead. ‘I don’t want to have to threaten, citizen, but the commander wants you now.’ He puffed out his cheeks like a self-important frog. ‘He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and nor do I, with all respect. I’m supposed to be off duty – they’ve relieved me at the gate – but they sent me because I recognised the description the boy gave, and was daft enough to say I’d seen you when they asked. So, if you would be so good as to come along with me at once? I think that would be best – for both of us, don’t you?’ He ran his finger down the edge of the blade, as if to let me know that it was very sharp.
I know a veiled threat when I see one, and this wasn’t very veiled. I swallowed and then nodded. ‘Lead the way then, guard.’
A Coin for the Ferryman Page 22
