Of course, that did not make this event seem any the less disturbing. Rather more so, if anything. The idea of an unseen vengeful spirit in our midst was decidedly discomfiting.
Some men, particularly those with little influence but a lively instinct for safety, attempted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and possible reprisals – human or supernatural – by loudly offering to go for help and dashing to the door. I might have attempted an exit myself, but I knew that it was hopeless. I had come with Marcus and there was no possible chance of pretending that I had been somewhere else all evening, and bribing a dozen witnesses to prove it, as some of the others would surely do. In any case the door-keeper, alerted by the sudden panicky exodus, realised that something unfortunate had happened and turned most of them back.
The remaining dignitaries eyed each other doubtfully. Fortunately all the senior civil and judicial authorities of the town were present, so there was no possibility of one group being less politically implicated than another. And there were political implications. The death of the guest of honour at a banquet is always an embarrassment, but even supernatural visitations were downright unwise when they caused an accident like this to a visiting favourite of the Emperor’s, especially at a civil banquet in a province already suspected of being rebellious. Little knots of magistrates huddled together, muttering in low voices. Some gulped at their wine dazedly. One could see why.
A dozen muted arguments broke out, but as tempers frayed with anxiety voices became shrill and raised. The topics seemed to be the same – what to do next, who should do it, and exactly which kind of funeral rites would be appropriate. Clearly no one wished to take responsibility (since, if the Emperor ever made enquiries, a wrong decision was likely to be much more dangerous than no decision at all) but everyone had an opinion. Some urged caution and delay, or even sending to the governor for advice, as though time would somehow soften the enormity of the event. Others seemed to feel the need for immediate action and were loudly demanding sacred herbs from the garden, calling for blankets from their litters, or sending bemused servants in all directions with contradictory messages.
The poor acrobat, obviously terrified at the outcome of his performance, had edged the nut bowl surreptitiously onto a table, and tried to slide unnoticed back into the corner with the rest of the entertainers. The nubile dancing girl burst into tears and the musicians began whispering together, patting her on the arm and nodding knowingly towards Gaius as owner of the house.
Gaius saw them. The danger of the situation was not lost upon him. He buried his head in his hands and let out a howl that would not have disgraced one of his dogs. Not surprisingly. The accident had occurred in his house. At the very least he would be personally responsible for the costly and time-consuming rituals of purification and mourning. At worst . . . well, choking on a nut might be an accident, or vengeance from the dead, but Commodus was not noted for either his leniency or his logic.
As if summoned by the howl, two slaves came out of the kitchens with a salver of sugared fruits. News had evidently not spread to the neither regions, but when they saw what was happening they bolted back again, leaving the door open. Gaius’s dogs, taking advantage of the moment, bounded in and added to the confusion by rushing around the room yapping and barking, leaping up on their master and lapping up the food under the tables. One of them, horrifyingly, began sniffing at the corpse.
It was at that point that Marcus finally took command. Whatever else, such indignity could not be tolerated. He strode over to the couch and pulled the dog away. At the same time he signalled to the musicians. The drums sounded and the lute-players touched their strings. Instantly the hubbub ceased and everyone looked towards Marcus. There was an almost visible ripple of relief. He was the most influential man present, and by stepping forward he had relieved others of the responsibility.
‘Citizens! This is a most unfortunate accident. Naturally, you are disturbed. But at all costs let us preserve decorum. Gaius, call your dogs to heel.’
The old man gave a feeble whistle. The dogs ignored him but a pair of his slaves, obviously accustomed to the duty, seized the dogs by the iron collars round their necks and dragged them downstairs towards the cellars and kitchens.
Marcus watched this performance in silence. Then he spoke again. ‘The body, I think, should be moved into a bedchamber. You, you, you and you,’ he indicated a line of waiting slaves, ‘go outside. Fetch a litter to place him on. The funeral arrangers will have one. Order the best they have, and bring the undertaker here. See that the libitinarius brings his anointers and pall-bearers and anything else that he needs.’
The lads scuttled to obey.
Marcus turned to the rest of us. ‘We have all been in the presence of sudden death, and therefore we all need rites of purification. Fortunately, we have the high priest of Jupiter among us. He will tell us what it is necessary to do.’
That was a happy stroke. Even the Emperor himself was in awe of the gods. The old priest dithered out to the household altar, fussed importantly with his robes and said, in a cracked and faded voice, ‘I shall need water, wine and oil. And a flame, from the Vestal altar in the atrium.’
Marcus gave a nod, and two slaves sidled away to fetch these necessities.
‘And then there are the candles and herbs to set at the bedside.’ More slaves departed.
There was a pause, while the requisite fire and liquids were fetched. Then the priest lit the lamp before the votive statues and began a long and complicated invocation of the gods in general, and Jupiter in particular, not forgetting the Emperor – in his role as divine being – and the household deities. He ritually washed his hands of death, and poured out conciliatory sacrifice, sprinkling herbs and some crumbs from the feast upon the sacred flame.
‘Prayers too for the herald,’ someone called, and the old man repeated the process with a morsel of bread and watered wine, dropping his voice to an incantatory murmur. The gods, being divine, were doubtless able to hear it. More mortal ears, like mine, were unable to distinguish a word. No doubt that was intentional. Commodus assuredly had his spies amongst us and would hear every detail of this ceremony. The priestly balance of duties between gods and Emperor cannot always be an easy one.
Nevertheless, the effect was impressive. When he had finished he blessed the ceremonial vessels, and the slaves moved among us, offering each person present first the bowl of cool water and then a dish of ashes from the altar. One by one we took the garlands from our heads, dipped our hands and rinsed our faces in ritual cleansing, and solemnly placed a fingerful of ashes as a mourning sign upon our foreheads. Not one of us, I think, would genuinely have shed a tear for the lifeless figure lying on the couch, but there was something reassuring about fulfilling the rites. Even I, who am not a believer in the Roman pantheon, felt vaguely comforted, particularly when the old priest at the end of the ceremony picked up a bronze salver and struck it ringingly – striking bronze is a well-known Roman specific against malevolent spirits.
The slaves had by now returned with the funeral arranger, the most prestigious in the city, and he and his workers were loitering in the passageway waiting for the priest to offer the remains of the feast before the sacrificial altar. (Gaius’s slaves would be delighted by that, I thought, since there was a good deal left over and the servants are, by tradition, permitted in the morning to eat the remnants which the gods have not consumed. I am not a sceptical man but it has been my impression that the gods are rarely very hungry on these occasions.)
At last the formalities were over and the libitinarius and his party were able to enter with the funeral litter, an elaborate couch affair on a bier, with gilded handles and an embroidered canopy. It was almost too wide for the entrance, but they brought it in at last, and set it down.
Two of the attendants came forward and laid the body tenderly on it. ‘Keep the feet to the door,’ the undertaker said, ‘in case the spirit should wish to escape.’ I saw Gaius flinch,
no doubt wishing we had thought of this elementary precaution earlier.
The attendants hoisted the litter, and the mortal remains of Felix were borne away upstairs to be washed, anointed, dressed in the finest toga in his possession, and – since he had been a person of some importance – arranged on the funerary couch and brought back to the atrium for a few days of lying in state. Matters were in the hands of the professionals. There was an audible murmur of relief as the litter jolted out of the room and up the narrow stairway. The spectacle was over. By common consent the remaining guests ignored the elaborate social ritual of compliment and counter-compliment which precedes departure from a feast, and prepared to leave without further ado. Social precedence, however, was not so easily flouted, and many people held back doubtfully. Marcus, as the highest-ranking individual, should properly leave the banquet first.
My patron caught my eye and signalled me to him. At last, I thought. The vision of my humble bed floated invitingly before my eyes. And Junio would doubtless be awaiting me with a beaker of honest mead. It had been a long day.
Suddenly, however, one of the funeral attendants reappeared in the inner doorway. ‘A thousand pardons, Excellence,’ he said, addressing himself with practised courtesy to Marcus and ignoring me entirely, ‘but who should close the eyes? And, being a gentleman from Rome, should someone observe the Roman convention?’
Kissing the lips of the deceased, he meant. It was a custom often practised in Rome, supposed to speed the departing soul. Marcus was looking at me. I shook my head. My duties to my patron encompass many things, but kissing the dead Felix was not one of them. The prospect was only marginally less horrible than the notion of kissing the living one.
That train of thought, however, gave me an idea. ‘With respect, Excellence, surely you should call on Zetso for this? In the absence of his daughter, who is still on her way, Zetso must know Felix better than any of us.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Zetso? But he is a mere carriage-driver. It is not seemly for him to perform the rites for such an important man.’
I permitted myself a smile. ‘In that case, Excellence, the duty should fall on the most senior and influential man present.’
‘Then . . .’ Marcus began, and then realised who that would be. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right, Libertus. Zetso should close the eyes at least, and perhaps tell us also what grave-goods and funerary meats we should provide. Where is Zetso? I saw him earlier.’
But Zetso was not to be found, in the passageway or in the servants’ ante-room. The undertaker’s boy was still looking at us enquiringly.
‘Libertus,’ Marcus said darkly, ‘you shall have the commission for the commemorative pavement. But think of something. Someone has got to do this.’
For a blind moment I thought it would have to be me, but then inspiration struck. ‘Surely, Excellence, the owner of the house? He is, officially, the host.’
Marcus rewarded me with a beam. ‘Of course.’ Gaius was sitting miserably on a stool in the corner, and Marcus gestured to him, saying smoothly, ‘Gaius Flavius Flaminius, you have been chosen for a singular honour . . .’ and the poor old fellow was led away into his own bedchamber to perform his grisly task. We could hear him, a little later, piping up a feeble lament and periodically calling Felix’s name as tradition demanded.
Marcus turned towards me, smiling. ‘Well, I believe we have done all we can. The council will meet tomorrow to arrange the funeral. A public ceremony, naturally, with a pause in the forum for the body to be displayed and someone to proclaim a eulogy. So I must be sure to find that herald and bury him decently before then. We want no more unfortunate accidents. Where is Zetso? He will know where the body was left, and he can lead us to it.’
I shook my head. ‘I do not know, Excellence. I have searched all the public rooms. Perhaps he has hidden downstairs, in the cellar or one of the storerooms. If he sees the hand of the dead in this, he must fear for his own safety. It was Zetso who staked out the corpse.’
Marcus gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Perhaps. See if you can find him, Libertus. He can take us out tomorrow to find the herald in that comfortable carriage of his.’
‘Us’, I noticed. It seemed my customers would have to wait another day. ‘Yes, Excellence,’ I said humbly, and seizing a smoky taper in a holder I set off to look for Zetso.
The house was built on a slight rise, so there was an area below the rooms where we had been dining. It seemed the appropriate place to start.
Zetso was not in the kitchens, nor in the cellars, nor in the servants’ room under the stairs. He was not in the latrine, although I surprised one of the erstwhile guests, a florid trader who was enthroned there, suspended over the drain with his sponge-stick in his hand. Zetso was not in the narrow store cupboards leading off the passage and filled with candles, wood and grain. In the last cupboard I opened, however, I did find something. One of Gaius’s dogs.
It was lying quietly on the floor on a sort of rug, and it did not even lift its head as I approached. I might have shut the door and tiptoed away, but something made me lift my taper nearer.
No, I was not mistaken. It was not a rug, it was a plaid cloak, of the kind that the pretended Egobarbus had been wearing earlier. In fact, I was prepared to wager it was the same cloak. When I came to consider it, I had not seen Egobarbus since the dramatic end of the entertainments. I bent closer for a moment and then shut the cupboard door and ran as quickly as I could up the dim and unlit stairs.
I went to the lobby and exchanged a few words with the doorman, and then I returned to Marcus.
‘Excellence?’
Marcus was talking to one of the aediles, the market police, but he turned impatiently at my approach. ‘Libertus?’ He did not care to be interrupted.
I took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, Excellence, but I think you must come quickly. I have not found Zetso, but there is something downstairs in a cupboard which I think you should see.’
Chapter Seven
‘I hope,’ Marcus said sternly as he followed me reluctantly down the short staircase, ‘that this is as important as you say.’ He was not dependent on my poor smoky taper, a slave with a fine oil-lamp was lighting his way, but he walked gingerly and with distaste, as though subterranean perambulations through the lower regions were not at all to his taste.
He had a point. The latrine in a town dwelling is never especially sweet-smelling, despite being over running water, but the odour from this one seemed to permeate the whole area. A man like Marcus, I realised, would probably not even demean himself by visiting the ablutions in a house like this: if he were staying here he would expect to be provided with servants, washing water and chamber pots.
‘See for yourself, Excellence,’ I said, opening the store cupboard with a flourish. In the better illumination the contents were clearer than before.
Marcus, who is not a lover of bouncy dogs, backed away hastily and motioned for the door to be shut before the dog awoke. All the same he had noticed the blanket. ‘That cloak! It is the one which that Egobarbus fellow was wearing. Or one very like it. What is it doing here in the store cupboard?’
‘I suppose it is just possible, Excellence, that either Gaius or Felix bought a length of the same cloth. Unfortunately we can hardly ask either of them since Felix is dead and Gaius is occupied in mourning him. Although perhaps the house-slaves would know.’
Marcus turned to the slave who was carrying the lamp. ‘Well? You work in this house, don’t you? Did Gaius, or Felix, purchase such a thing?’
The lad gulped and shook his head. When he spoke his voice was trembling with nervousness. ‘Not that I know of, Excellence. I cannot imagine that my master would want such a piece of coarse Celtic plaid, His Excellence Tigidius Perennis Felix even less so.’
Marcus was looking impatient, and I stepped in hastily. ‘I agree, Excellence. A most unlikely purchase for either of them. In which case I can only suppose that it is the cloak, and the man himself put it here. It occurs to me that
I did not notice him again after Felix died. The doorman did not see him leave, either. I made a point of asking him.’
Marcus’s frown deepened. ‘Yet Egobarbus would not be easy to miss. Those whiskers and that cloak . . . By Jupiter, greatest and best! Libertus, I see what you are thinking. Somehow he came here and abandoned his cloak in order to escape without being noticed. Though he would have needed something to disguise those whiskers. A hooded cape, perhaps?’
I nodded, doubtfully. Roman citizens are not as universally clean-shaven as they used to be. Indeed, there has been quite a little fashion for beards since the Emperor Hadrian sported one, and naturally, since Commodus himself is bearded, much of polite society in high places follows the Emperor. But it is not usual in Glevum. Even I have to submit to the expensive horrors of a barber’s shop occasionally – with its dreadful sharpened blades and its spiders-web-and-ashes dressing for nicks and cuts – though I generally prefer the ministrations of Junio with a pair of iron scissors. Most of the guests, and slaves, at the banquet tonight had been as smooth-faced as Vestal virgins, so Egobarbus was as conspicuous as a lighted torch. Even a hooded cape would scarcely have disguised that exuberant moustache.
‘There is—’ I began, but Marcus brushed me aside and was scowling down the narrow corridor.
‘What is behind those other doors?’
I hastened to inform him. ‘More store cupboards, Excellence, and the big entrance on the right is to the kitchens. Egobarbus is not there. I searched them not a minute ago when I was looking for Zetso.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Marcus said, ‘we will search again.’ He gestured the lamp-bearer forward and suited the action to the words. In vain. There was nothing in the other cupboards but grain and candles and nothing in the smoky candlelit kitchen but a group of startled slaves, who – drawn as they were from different households – were squabbling noisily about what scraps were whose, and who should be expected to clean the greasy salvers and rub the dirty knives with red earth and ashes. My visit earlier had caused consternation enough, but at the sight of a purple-striper in the kitchen they stopped their bickering at once, and dropping their various brooms and implements stood staring at us in mystified terror.
Murder in the Forum Page 6
