‘Ooh, yes,’ the girl behind the counter said, pocketing the proffered coin with a grimy hand, ‘I see everything from here, citizen.’ She tossed her head, so that her long unwashed braids of hair swung treacherously close to the serving ladle, and favoured me with what she probably imagined was an inviting smile. It would have been more alluring, had she possessed a few more teeth.
‘You saw the red-haired Celt arrive here yesterday?’ I prompted.
‘Fellow with red hair and long whiskers? Of course I did. You could hardly miss him. There was such a fuss about the carriage. It almost came to blows. The driver said he hadn’t been paid, although he had been promised I don’t know how much to drive halfway from Letocetum, collect them from an inn and bring them here.’
‘Letocetum?’ I was surprised. I had never been to Letocetum, but I had heard of it. An important staging post for the imperial army, a day’s ride north-west on the road to Eboracum. Interesting, I thought. Eboracum was the town which Felix had been visiting on business.
‘That’s where the driver came from. I heard him tell them so, when they were arguing about the price.’ She twined her greasy hair with a greasier hand.
‘Them?’ I said, seizing on a word. ‘How many of them were there?’
The girl smiled again, showing her blackened gums. Unmarriageable, I guessed, and eking out a meagre living providing hot food for unsuspecting travellers and probably other services for any soldiers who had gambled too much of their pay and were no longer very particular.
‘Only the man and his two servants,’ she said. ‘Funny that you should mention that. The carriage-driver kept insisting that he should have been paid for four. He threatened to fetch the aediles, but the Celt gave him a few denarii and he calmed down in the end.’
‘He did?’ I was surprised.
‘Oh yes. The Celt changed his tune very quickly when he was threatened with the law. He couldn’t hand over the money fast enough. And he promised to bring him the rest this evening. Apparently he was owed a lot of money by that Roman notable who died at the feast.’ She grinned gummily and settled her tattered garment across her skinny hips. ‘I don’t suppose either of them will see their money now. A man must live while he can, don’t you think, citizen?’
The conversation was taking an uncomfortable turn. I did not like the way she was nodding towards the squalid curtained recess at the rear of the shop. I abandoned all thoughts of learning any more, and put down my bowl hastily. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that was helpful.’ And I hurried away.
‘But, citizen,’ she called out after me, ‘you have not tasted your soup.’
‘Another time,’ I lied, and hastened back through the gate into the town.
The guard on duty winked wickedly at me. ‘No time for your soup, citizen? I’m surprised at you. Forget how late it was, did you?’
I knew what he was thinking and felt myself flush in embarrassment. The man must think me desperate to resort to such extremes. Nevertheless, it had given me an opportunity. Roman guards are usually grim-faced and silent. This one was grinning widely, and, thinking he had me at a disadvantage, seemed willing to talk.
I glanced over my shoulder. The girl had gone back to her stall and was pouring the remains of the soup back into the cooking pot. I improvised wildly. ‘I came here looking for my slave,’ I said, sending up a mental plea to Junio for forgiveness. ‘But she doesn’t seem to have seen him.’
The guard shrugged. ‘He won’t have come here. She doesn’t deal with slaves – unless they simply want a bowl of soup. Even if they had the money, which they mostly don’t. Too much trouble if they are caught. No, she sticks to soldiers – auxiliaries mostly, they never have any money – and occasionally visitors to the city if they are short of cash and are not too fussy.’
I saw an opening, and took it. ‘Like that red-headed fellow with the whiskers who turned up here yesterday? The one who had an argument with his coachman?’
The soldier grinned. ‘You heard about that? I did not see it myself, I was not on duty at the time, but it was the talk of the barracks. Turned up in a hired coach, apparently, with not enough money to pay the driver, and then claimed he had business with Perennis Felix. We took him in for questioning, and locked him up for an hour, but it seems he was telling the truth. He insisted that we send a message to Felix, and the next thing we heard he was being invited to a civic banquet.’
I found myself grinning. ‘So your commander let him go?’
‘Quicker than Jove can hurl lightning. Did you see that Perennis Felix? And this man was an associate of his. We were expecting at any moment to be punished for our presumption. But who could possibly have supposed that the story was true? The man was half barbarian. He hardly spoke Latin, and could barely use an abacus. I saw him at the barracks when they brought him in. One cannot imagine why a wealthy Roman would have dealings with him.’
‘I understand there is tin and copper involved,’ I said carefully.
The soldier shrugged. ‘That is what he said. Though he refused to answer any of our questions, even when we threatened him. He simply said that Felix would vouch for him. Which in the end he did.’ He grinned. ‘Our chief of guard nearly prostrated himself with apology.’
‘So you would have noticed if the man had passed the gate again?’
‘Noticed? Great Mars! I think our commander would have come down and escorted him through it personally.’ He grinned again. ‘I suppose we should have guessed he was important. A man who can afford to indulge his private vanities like that is clearly a person to be reckoned with.’
‘He certainly looked singular,’ I said. ‘In that plaid and that moustache.’
‘Well, one sees that sort of thing often enough,’ the guard remarked. ‘In Isca, on the border, if not here. A lot of those peculiar Celts still wear their outlandish tribal fashions. No, what attracted my attention was the slaves. Apparently he has always done it. One of our centurions was posted in the south-west and he had heard of it before.’
‘Always done what?’
‘Surrounded himself with red-headed servants.’
The answer startled me. I tried to think back to the household of Egobarbus as I once knew it. There were red-headed servants, certainly, among them – as there always are when a vigorous leader keeps female slaves. But there were others with hair of every hue, and there was certainly no policy of any kind. Although, when I came to think of it, it was exactly the sort of petty tyranny the real Egobarbus would have delighted in.
I came back to the present, to find the guard staring at me. The friendly manner had gone and his voice was crisp as he lowered his spear and pointed it lazily in the direction of my vitals.
‘And you, citizen? What is your interest in this Celt? You are asking a lot of questions. You seem to know what he looked like. And yet you did not know about the servants? How do you explain that?’
It was a moment to exercise what little rank I had. ‘I saw him at the banquet last night,’ I said. ‘I was a guest myself.’ I saw the guard’s jaw drop with incredulity. It would have been comic if it were not so serious. I pressed my advantage. ‘And I have some property which belongs to him. His plaid cloak. He left it behind in a cupboard. And,’ I added quickly as he made a lunge towards me, ‘before you suggest locking me up in my turn, I recommend that you apply to Marcus Aurelius Septimus. He is my patron, and I am acting on his orders.’
The spear-point hesitated for a moment, and then moved aside. ‘Your pardon, citizen,’ the guard said. ‘I did not realise. You do not look like a . . . Your toga . . .’ He tailed off.
I stepped past the spear into the comparative safety of the city. ‘No,’ I murmured, ‘that is the trouble with the peculiar Celts. Sometimes we wear the most outlandish tribal costumes.’
But, having a lively respect for Roman guards with spears, I didn’t say it loudly enough for anyone to hear.
Chapter Thirteen
As I made my way back through the town I
was not displeased with my progress. I knew the direction that ‘Egobarbus’ had come from, if not where he had gone. But what had he been doing on the road to Eboracum? I was beginning to believe that my enquiries should lead me in that direction. The fact that the trail to my wife also pointed towards that city had, of course, nothing to do with my decision.
The other information I had gleaned was quite suggestive too. I should have a lot to report to Marcus. I was so satisfied with the outcome of my enquiries that I was halfway across the city before it occurred to me that I had entirely omitted to discover whether anyone at the gate had seen Zetso.
It was too late now. If I returned to ask additional questions I was unlikely to be actually arrested, but I had no doubt that the guard would treat me with – at the very least – the utmost circumspection. Obtaining further information from him would be like trying to prise the flesh out of one of Marcus’s oysters. And just as potentially dangerous.
I tried asking at the East Gate, where Zetso had collected me in the carriage, but I learned nothing. One of the guards was the handsome fellow I had seen flirting with Zetso the day before. I had hopes of him – I saw his eyes flash up at the description – but (perhaps because Zetso seemed to have fled the city) he became so belligerent and hostile that I very soon abandoned my attempt, and made my way back to Gaius’s house. There, I felt, there must be something that would shed light on this affair.
The queue of would-be mourners at the door was shorter now, and I was admitted quickly and without question. This time I did not wait for a slave to escort me, but made my way directly to the kitchens.
There were far fewer servants here than there had been on the night of the feast, only a handful of slaves stirring pots or basting meat over the charcoal fire while a pair of kitchen-boys chopped herbs on a marble slab. A couple of live chickens clucked in a coop by the wall, watched balefully by Gaius’s remaining dog, which was lying under the table, gnawing scraps.
One of the cooks abandoned his bubbling pan and came fussing over to greet me, wiping his fat hands on his ample tunic. ‘How can I assist you, citizen? We are busy with the grave-meats, as you see.’
I outlined my questions, but the slave shook his head. ‘I really cannot help you, citizen. There were so many servants brought here during the feast. I scarcely knew any of them, because they came from a dozen houses round about. There were so many slaves in the kitchen that we were tripping over one another, but I was so busy with my own sauces and dainties that I had no time to take much notice. I doubt I would recognise any of them if I saw them.’
‘Not even,’ I suggested hesitantly, ‘two big red-headed slaves?’
The cook smiled. ‘The attendants of the Celtic gentleman? Yes, I did see them. Great hulking fellows with hands like dinner salvers. They came down to wait in the ante-room. We were so short-handed with the extra wine, I even thought of asking them to help, but when I went to speak to them I could hardly understand a word they said. So I abandoned the idea. I didn’t want them creating embarrassment by serving the wine all wrong, pouring it out without mixing and filtering it. And they would have been useless in the kitchen.’
I could imagine that. Celtic cooking can be delicious – at least to my taste – but it has little in common with a Roman feast.
The cook shook his head. ‘I didn’t see where they went to afterwards. Waited to escort their master, I suppose. I did see him briefly, visiting the latrine.’
I nodded. That was possible confirmation of one of my theories, at least. I wondered if Egobarbus had taken advantage of such a visit to divest himself of his cloak. Supposing, of course, that it hadn’t been seized from him by force.
‘Ah yes, the latrines,’ I said. ‘I gather you have managed to correct the problem with the drains.’ It was an unnecessary question. The difference was already evident. The stench of rotting fish had largely dissipated.
The slave looked at me doubtfully.
‘Your master explained it to me. The piece of fish fixed there . . .’
The cook grimaced. ‘It was more than that, in the event. I sent one of the boys down there this morning with a brush, and he found something else. It wasn’t just the fish – some sort of animal seems to have died down there. Perhaps the fish attracted it, and it drowned. The lad found the tail wedged into a crack. There was no sign of the rest of the creature – doubtless it had washed away or been gnawed at by others. You find horrible things in the drain-stream sometimes.’
‘A tail?’ I said. A strange hypothesis had occurred to me. ‘Only a tail? You are sure of that?’
He looked at me with distaste. ‘See for yourself. We threw it out into the alley this morning onto the midden-heap, together with the remains of the fish. I imagine it is still there. You can’t miss it. The length of a man’s span, hard in the middle and tapered. It looked like a tail to me. I didn’t examine it too closely.’
The idea of doing so didn’t appeal to me, either, but I could see no help for it. I followed the cook’s directions and went around to the side of the house where the stinking alley lay. In common with most of the houses in the colonia, Gaius’s residence presented only blank walls to the outside world, at least on this side, and – lacking a sufficiency of courtyards – the household waste was simply brought outside and abandoned in the narrower alleyways until rains or the occasional desultory street-cleaners carried it away. In the meantime, it lay there festering, a haven for scavengers of both the two and the four-legged variety. Even now something furry scuttled away at my approach.
I could see the item I was interested in on top of the heap. The smell of putrid fish almost drove me back, but I picked up a stick and hooked up the dripping object. It was too wet and disgusting to handle, but I examined it as best I could. It might have been a tail. It was the right length, and it had the same knotted, hairy look. On the other hand it might have been the hairs, twisted together and held with some sort of wax, that had once formed one side of a long drooping moustache.
The whole thing was sodden and filthy with slime, but it was possible to imagine that the colour might once have been red. I let it slide back on the mire-heap and picked my way back to the house. The scowling doorman let me in again and, sending a slave for a bowl of water to rinse my hands, I made my way to the triclinium.
I had hoped to have a quiet word with Marcus, but he was no longer there. There was someone else, however, a huddled figure on one of the couches, who leaped up at my approach as though a snake had bitten him.
‘We meet again, Octavius,’ I said.
He did not return my greeting, but sank down on the couch again in a despondent fashion. ‘I thought you were Phyllidia,’ he said, reproachfully.
Since that is not an easy confusion to make, there was little I could say to this. I said nothing.
Octavius seemed to realise that he had been discourteous. He essayed a smile. ‘Libertus, you startled me. I have been waiting a long time. Phyllidia sent for me.’
‘They found you at the inn?’
He coloured. ‘They did. I was looking for her. I had gone to her rooms. And before you ask, I didn’t steal anything.’
I looked at him in amusement. ‘I did not suppose you had. Is something missing?’
He sighed. ‘Not that I heard. But I was surprised to find you here. I hurried over at once, as soon as I had the message, but now I am here Phyllidia hasn’t come to see me. I must talk to her. Have you seen her?’
I nodded.
‘What did she say? Did she mention me? Have you told her what you told me, about . . . you know . . .’ he glanced about him like a spy in a Greek tragedy, ‘about . . . Felix?’ He uttered the last word in a penetrating whisper, so penetrating that it must certainly have reached the ears of the slave, who chose that moment to enter with my washing water.
‘She is performing her lament for her father, even now,’ I said, as smoothly as I could, to cover the moment. ‘No,’ I went on, when the slave had put down the bowl and
retreated at my command, ‘I thought it better to keep my suspicions private – though you seem to be doing your best to prevent it.’
Octavius had the grace to blush.
I moved to the bowl of water and began to wash my hands. In the light of where they had been, I took peculiar care, rinsing them carefully several times and wiping them meticulously on the napkin which had been provided.
Octavius watched me curiously. ‘You are going to take a place at the lament?’ he asked, at last.
For a moment I was surprised. ‘No. I am not expected to join the mourners – not until the funeral, at least. What makes you ask?’
‘I thought you were making ritual ablutions.’
I had to smile at that. I still felt a certain sympathy with this young man, and his appearance of clumsy guilelessness, though I was beginning to suspect that he was not quite as guileless as he seemed. ‘Nothing so dignified,’ I said. ‘I was merely washing my hands because I made them dirty.’
He was still gawping at me like a sun-blinded owl, and I added, more to put him at ease than anything else, ‘Raking through the waste-pile in search of evidence. Evidence about that secret you so nearly publicised to everyone.’
I intended to be merely facetious, but I had clearly failed. Octavius turned whiter than a fuller’s toga, and said in a hoarse murmur, ‘Did you find . . . anything?’
I was about to answer candidly, but his manner was so awkward and furtive that I said instead, ‘I did. As you clearly knew that I would.’
For answer Octavius rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. I could not imagine that a tail – or even a moustache – would cause him such manifest anxiety. So evidently there was something else out there that I should have noticed. I shut my eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. The prospect of digging about again in that odoriferous pile was not a welcome one.
Murder in the Forum Page 11
