Murder in the Forum

by Rosemary Rowe

  ‘Youngish, and dark, and he had a strange, clipped sort of accent – or at least he seemed to have. I have wondered since if he adopted it on purpose. He had a fine horse, I remember.’

  I nodded. That at least was new information.

  He said, after a short pause, ‘My mistress thinks there was a company of thieves in the town. It has happened once before. Men calling with messages when the house-owners were out and – when they were admitted to wait – sending the slaves away on fruitless errands while they looked around for something to steal. Nothing large, of course, only a golden statue or two, which they would hide under their clothes, and walk out later as calmly as you please. The thefts were not noticed until afterwards.’

  ‘That hardly seems the case in this matter.’

  ‘Fortunately for me, since it would have been on my head if I had let him in. But there are always other thieves, attacking helpless people in the street and stripping them of their purses – as I hear they stripped you, citizen.’

  I could hardly deny this, but he said it with a grin which was almost insolent. I did not care for the turn the conversation was taking, and having learned – as I supposed – all there was to learn, I took my leave of him and returned to Marcus.

  My patron had a string of clientes waiting for his attention by this time, but he had lingered to speak to me.

  ‘So, my brave pavement-maker, did you learn anything new?’

  ‘No real facts, Excellence, since that is what you required.’

  ‘Well, I have facts for you. You heard that my poor herald’s body has been found?’

  I nodded. ‘Junio told me so.’

  Marcus sighed. ‘I have had him collected. It is vexatious. Worse than I thought. Deliberately insulting. Not only did Felix have him tied to a stake for the birds to pick at, as if he were a common criminal, he also had a notice nailed up above him: “Here is a nameless, insolent slave who insulted the great Perennis Felix.” Who did Felix think he was? A Roman governor?’

  I made a sympathetic noise. I knew what he was referring to. Some senior magistrates and provincial governors routinely labelled criminals in this way before their executions, and sometimes made them parade the streets wearing their placards of indictment, as a humiliation to them and a warning to the rest of the populace. I have known Marcus himself have a notice nailed over a crucified criminal, but Marcus was a senior magistrate. Felix had had no such authority.

  ‘Insulted the great Perennis Felix, indeed!’ Marcus fumed. ‘It is I who am insulted, if anyone.’

  It passed through my mind that perhaps the herald himself had a certain claim to having been insulted, but naturally that was not a thought that I could voice. I said, ‘But you have had the body moved, Excellence?’

  ‘Of course. We cannot have his spirit unquiet and haunting the town. I intend to have him disposed of decently. But therein lies the problem, old friend. I should have had them bring him here, to be properly bathed and anointed, since this is where he lived and worked, but I am in official mourning for Felix. It would be disrespectful to host another funeral, especially of someone whom Felix himself put to death.’

  ‘But surely, Excellence,’ I ventured, ‘the slaves’ guild would bury him? I know you normally make provision for your slaves, like a thoughtful master, but in the circumstances surely you could have them cremate him? It would be all over before Felix’s funeral. They could do it at once. He was only a herald. There is no need for a mourning period.’

  ‘There will be no problem with that,’ Marcus said. ‘The herald is a guild member – I have always paid his dues. I have done it for all my servants. I never can be certain that I will not be recalled to Rome and be unable to provide a proper funeral when they die. No.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘The difficulty is where to take the body now.’ He looked at me speculatively.

  I knew Marcus. He was working up to something. I said cautiously, ‘Of course, Excellence, if there is anything whatever I can do . . .’

  Marcus smiled. ‘Libertus, you are a true friend. I will not forget this when it comes to assigning public commissions. Very well, then, I accept your offer. The funeral guild can take him from your rooms. That way you can attend the ceremony in my place. I will not have Felix contrive to have my herald sent to the other world with only slaves to mourn him.’

  I opened my mouth to protest. Playing host to a funeral, especially as chief mourner, is a burdensome business. It would necessitate not only giving up a room to the corpse – and goodness knows there was little enough space as it was – but also all manner of cleansing rituals afterward, including a sacrificial offering, a period of fasting, and another series of personal purifications at the end of nine days. To say nothing of a cold nocturnal procession outside the city walls – no funeral is permitted within them. But one cannot argue with Marcus.

  He was smiling at me. ‘I was certain of your good offices, old friend. I have already had them take the herald to your workshop. The guild has agreed that they can bury him from there. And you need not fear ghosts – they will not use your sleeping room. They will do the thing tonight. I have spoken to the foreman already.’

  He meant he had offered the man a bribe. I said feebly, ‘But, Excellence, I had planned to go to the North Gate tonight, and meet the driver of the conveyance that brought the Celts.’ It was not exactly a firm plan of mine, in fact I had just thought of it, but it seemed a reasonable undertaking, and preferable to a funeral. I added, winningly, ‘He was promised payment this evening, and I hoped—’

  Marcus interrupted. ‘Do not concern yourself with that. I will have the man questioned myself.’ He clapped me companionably on the shoulder. ‘The guild is expecting you. And do not look so downcast. There will be little fuss.’

  I was not so sure. No doubt, if the corpse had been delivered, the gossip would already have started – and for the next half-moon my neighbours would avoid me with the wary politeness which always follows the presence of a dead body in the house. And there would be no hiding the funeral.

  I have attended slave-guild funerals before. The bier is only of gilded wood, and it is rescued before the cremation, the urns are of cheap pottery instead of gold and bronze and the mourners are paid slaves, but there is no lack of ceremony. To a man who has nothing in this world, the entry into the next is an important occasion, and slaves will often set aside every quadrans they own to ensure that they pay their dues and so avoid the communal pit which is otherwise their lot. Even so, more than one slave is often cremated at a time – it halves the cost, and increases the show. I could envisage a very large cortège arriving at my door.

  Marcus saw my look. ‘I assure you, Libertus, tonight will be a quiet affair. There was a great slave funeral last night, apparently. One of the dead actually worked for the guild at one time, so they made a huge ceremony of it: a senior priest, proper orations, pipers, dancers and scores of mourners following the corpse.’

  I nodded. ‘We saw the procession ourselves, Excellence, on the way to the banquet.’

  Marcus waved the remark aside. ‘Indeed. Well, there will be nothing like that tonight. I have requested that it be discreet, although I am assured that the guild always does these things very well.’

  I must still have looked doubtful.

  There was a hint of impatience in his voice as he continued, ‘And there will be no expense. They are providing the sacrifice, and the funeral meal afterwards. I have made the arrangements.’

  Which is more, I reflected, than anyone would do for me. Except perhaps Junio. But I must not annoy Marcus. I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘My pleasure, Excellence.’

  In fact, of course, it was no pleasure at all. But there was no help for it. Already it was getting dark, and I would have to go home and prepare myself. Coarse cloth, ashes on the forehead and then a cold vigil in the night air when I was already stiff and bruised from an attack. And it was raining.

  As I summoned Junio and made my way back to the s
treet I wished, not for the first time, that Felix Perennis had never come to Glevum. I was so concerned with my resentful thoughts that it did not occur to me that I had been given the solution to at least a part of the problem I was trying to solve.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The evening was as dismal as I had feared. The poor old herald was a sorry sight, stretched out on a makeshift bier on my workshop table, with the ritual candles burning around him. He had not been a pretty spectacle when he was dragged away behind the carriage, and a day and night pegged up to a stake had not improved him – even the bits of him which one could see. I was glad that the guild, contrary to custom, had covered his face with a cloth.

  They had done their best with him, bathed his appalling wounds and clothed what they could in a new robe which Marcus had provided. They had also provided a weeper, whose moans could be heard from the alley outside, and put up a wreath of funerary green on my entranceway to show that there was a corpse within. So, as I had half expected, people were already crossing the street to avoid the house. I would be lucky to have any customers call for days, after this.

  Marcus was right about one thing. When the moment arrived there was comparatively little ‘fuss’. The guild had provided a mere four bearers, and they turned up almost before I was ready for them. I was still clothing myself in the lugubria, the dark-coloured robe expected of the closest relatives or chief mourners. I hadn’t worn mine since my own master died, and that was more than ten years earlier. Fortunately, since I had increased in girth as well as age, Roman fashion is not close-fitting.

  I arranged my folds, with Junio’s help, and dashing the required ashes on my forehead I hurried down to meet the funeral workers.

  Marcus’s bribe had clearly done its work. The foreman of the guild was there in person, together with a little wizened man I recognised as a priest of Diana, although I am not sure if the local slave guild has some affiliation with that cult, or whether this religious functionary merely happened to be available. Either way he looked pleased with this assignment – perhaps he too was benefiting from Marcus’s purse.

  The guild foreman came wheezing over, wringing his thin hands, to instruct me in my ‘duties’. I was surprised. I have attended slave funerals before, and normally everything is performed by the guild.

  The old man looked at me with rheumy eyes. ‘Oh no, citizen. You represent the slave’s owner – a rare honour at these occasions. And since the slave’s owner is His Excellence Marcus Aurelius Septimus of course it is doubly so. Naturally you must help officiate. You could begin now, perhaps, by calling on the spirit of the departed?’

  This was awkward. I knew what to do – I was supposed to call the herald’s name, to ensure that his spirit really had departed, but this was difficult because I didn’t know it. I had to content myself with simply calling ‘Herald of Marcus’ three times, in ringing tones. It seemed to satisfy my audience.

  It did not occur to me until afterwards that, since I represented Marcus, they were unlikely to be critical of me, whatever I did. And it made little difference. The poor fellow’s spirit had clearly escaped the body long before, and given the manner of its going, I doubt it was anxious to be recalled.

  These formalities complete, the bearers hoisted up the bier, and took it outside. I saw them place it on the more ornate carved carrying stretcher they had brought with them, for which there was no room in my cramped workshop. Instructed by the priest I doused the candles, ‘purified the room with fire and water’ (a whirled censer and a quick sprinkle from the ewer provided) and we were off: myself, Junio, the pall-bearers, two professional keeners, the officiating functionaries and a couple of skinny torch-bearers.

  My habitation, of course, is on the west side of the city on the marshy margins of the river – not a suitable place for cremations and inhumation. To reach the cremation site necessitated a long damp procession through the town. Fortunately the guards at the gates were used to funerals, and let us through without a murmur.

  It was still drizzling.

  ‘We shall be lucky if he burns at all,’ Junio murmured at my side, and I was obliged to silence him. As chief mourner I had to maintain an appropriately lugubrious expression.

  We crossed the town – taking the narrower lanes, to avoid the night-time traffic – and as we did so our procession lengthened, until by the time we reached the eastern wall there must have been twenty people in the retinue.

  I glimpsed Junio’s face in the torchlight.

  ‘Who are they all?’ he mouthed.

  I recognised some of them as other servants of Marcus. No doubt my patron had sent them, as he had sent me. I frowned severely. ‘People who knew the herald or belong to the guild, naturally,’ I whispered, in my best pompous manner.

  Junio grinned. ‘Or who have contrived to attach themselves to the procession in the expectation of a free meal afterwards.’ He cocked an eye skywards. ‘Given the weather it is fortunate that we don’t eat the funeral feast at the graveside in these islands, as they are said to do in Rome.’

  He spoke so softly that only I could hear him, and he almost made me smile. That would be unforgivable for a chief mourner and I had to scowl fiercely to put a stop to his levity.

  We had passed through the far gates by this time, and reached the site where the guild held its cremations. Despite the damp evening the pyre was dry – it must have been covered with something – and a member of the guild was already standing by with a torch to light it, and an amphora of something liquid to pour onto the faggots to help them burn. Oil and fat perhaps, or distilled wine: I wish I knew their secret.

  It was time for me to pay attention to the ceremony; according to the priest it was my job to scatter a handful of earth on the corpse before it was consigned to the flames.

  I did so, and was preparing to take my place in the crowd again when the foreman of the guild came bowing over.

  ‘An oration, citizen?’

  Of course! I had forgotten that. I was also expected to make some sort of flattering speech about what a good herald this had been. Without, of course, alluding to the manner of his death, or appearing to criticise Felix. There would be spies everywhere. Once more I mentally cursed Marcus for getting me into this. If one of the guild were making this oration I would have felt a great deal safer.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Fellow . . .’ – I was about to say ‘citizens’ but stopped myself in time – ‘Glevans . . .’

  It was not a good speech, but I managed something.

  Then I had to be witness as a part of the corpse was cut off to be ritually buried – a grisly concession to custom which the average mourner is spared – and finally the bier was lifted from its gilded stretcher and placed rather clumsily on the pyre.

  ‘Not too close, citizen,’ the foreman murmured, gesturing me back.

  He was right. The moment the torch was applied the flames sprang up, and once the liquid was poured onto them the heat and smoke became even more intense. Perhaps the cloth that covered the face had also been doused in something because, despite Junio’s fears, the whole corpse was soon burning fiercely.

  ‘Grave-goods?’ the foreman asked, in an undertone.

  I shook my head, feeling foolish, but he was clearly not surprised. A slave does not often have possessions and a man cannot take into the next world what he does not own in this.

  The aged priest muttered a prayer to his goddess, pausing and smiling to me at intervals. I muttered something inaudible which I hoped sounded appropriate, and soon the immediate formalities were over. I have always disliked the smell of burning flesh and I was glad when I was permitted to stand back with the crowd. Most of them had pulled their hoods over their heads against the drizzle. Gratefully I did the same and resigned myself to wait.

  It promised to be a damp evening. Even the appearance of a drummer and piper did nothing to enliven it.

  All the same, the pyre-builders knew their trade. They had developed combustion into a fine art: the fir
e and the torches were skilfully kept alight, and indeed it was not much more than an hour before the mortal remains of Marcus’s herald were reduced to ashes. They were then doused with wine and water and swept up – at least partially – into a funeral pot. To my relief I was not expected to take any part in that.

  They handed the urn to me, though, when they had finished, and I was obliged to lead the procession and carry it – still warm – to the communal tomb building recently erected by the slave guild. I had not seen the edifice before, although there were already a number of burials within it. They call it a columbarium, a dovecote, because of the dozens of little niches set into it, and they are very proud of it. Besides, it saves money. Slaves die every day and a communal resting place removes the need to sacrifice a pig each time to consecrate the grave.

  I put my pot warily into the recess the foreman indicated, and a guild functionary fixed it into place with damp mud. It would be sealed more firmly later.

  I was afflicted by a terrible desire to wipe my hands on my dark-coloured toga, after handling the pot, but it would have been disrespectful to do so. I forced myself to stand still while the old priest muttered a quick blessing, first on the grave itself and then on the bread and wine which the foreman handed me.

  ‘No other grave-meats?’ he enquired, and again I was forced to say no.

  He nodded. ‘There rarely are,’ he said, in his peculiar wheezing whisper. ‘And don’t worry, once the urn is in this grave, you won’t need to feed it further. There will be other funerals, with their own foodstuffs, and we sacrifice a bit for everyone at regular intervals.’ He stepped back and allowed me to place my humble offering in the appropriate place.