Murder in the Forum

by Rosemary Rowe

  I regretted not having provided some grave-meats, if not to be cremated then at least to be offered now. This dry crust and dribble of thin wine did not seem much sustenance for the long journey into the next world, but it was all that the herald was likely to get.

  I hoped there would be something more substantial offered to the living. I was cold and hungry and still stiff from my ordeal and I knew a funeral supper was to be provided. Knowing the guild, it was likely to be a single dish of stewed river eels and barley, a meal which I have never liked, probably accompanied by that revolting fish pickle. I told myself that after my eventful day I should be grateful to eat almost anything – and in any case, as chief mourner, I could hardly refuse.

  Well, I would soon know. The priest was invoking the moon-goddess again and then it would be time for us to return to the city. Already the more impatient mourners at the back were beginning to drift away in the direction of the gates. At last the mumbling stopped, I added my ‘Vale’ to the dead man and the obsequies were over.

  The guild foreman fell into step behind me. I ventured an enquiry about the funeral supper.

  ‘Eel stew, citizen? By no means. There is pork stew tonight, and fennel. I have had the kitchen slaves prepare it specially. Last night, with such a huge attendance, it was different – though of course not everyone attended the banquet.’

  ‘There were many mourners?’ I said, with more politeness than interest.

  ‘Crowds,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t tell you how many.’ In the flickering torchlight he smiled thinly. ‘Of course, with a big crowd like that there are always hangers-on. One fellow had to turn back at the gate because his father had been jostled to the ground in the crowd, and another came to me this morning saying that he’d been robbed. No doubt there were outlaws and thieves among us.’

  And then, at last, something meshed inside my brain. The foreman went on chatting to me all the way into town, about this funeral and that, and what distinguished servants he had been called upon to bury, but I confess I was scarcely listening.

  Never mind that the pork and fennel was poorly cooked, and that it was served smothered with the vilest kind of jellyfish pickle-substitute, or that the speeches and eulogistic poems went on for far too long – my mind was on other things.

  If Zetso or Egobarbus had left the town last night – and I was fairly sure that at least one of them had – I now knew how they had done it. It had been so blindingly obvious that I was ashamed of myself for not thinking of it before.

  I was even more ashamed a little later when, as we were walking home again, Junio turned to me. He was trotting along beside me, holding a taper.

  ‘Master?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but it occurs to me . . .’

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘If I were a stranger to the town, and wished to pass the gates after sundown without arousing suspicion . . .’

  ‘You would put on a cape and pretend to be a mourner at a funeral. And there was a huge funeral last night, anyone could have gone to it. Yes, Junio, I am very slow. The same thought has just occurred to me.’

  He frowned. ‘Only . . .’

  I waited.

  ‘Only, from what you say, Zetso and Egobarbus both left the banquet late. The funeral would have been over by then. One would have to move with the crowd. A lone mourner would have attracted attention.’

  ‘You think so?’ I said. ‘Watch this.’ We had almost reached the city gates and, as we approached, the guard, seeing my mourning clothes, grudgingly opened up the inner door and permitted us to pass.

  Junio thought for a moment. ‘You mean, he would have to be hiding here, in the western suburbs? But then he would be trapped between the walls and the river, once the guards were alerted.’ He sounded excited, suddenly. ‘But in that case, he must still be here.’

  ‘Either that,’ I said, ‘or he found another way. Joining at the East Gate when the mourners were returning, for instance, and pretending to “turn back” to find his father.’

  Junio looked at me.

  ‘Somebody did,’ I said. ‘The foreman told me so. And I was too stupid to have thought of it. And now Zetso or Egobarbus – whichever it was – has a whole day’s start over the searchers. It is very unlikely we shall catch them now.’

  It was no comfort, when I got home, to find the whole house still smelling of herbs, candles and corruption. Dismissing Junio’s offer to bathe my bruises, I threw off my damp lugubria and called rather petulantly for a blanket. As I did so, ready to lie down in my tunic as I always did, my fingers found the cord loop of the little bottle. I had forgotten all about it again.

  Junio brought the cloth to cover me. ‘What is that, master?’

  I told him. ‘But if she poisoned her father,’ I finished, ‘she did not do it with this.’

  Junio chuckled. ‘Then it is as well you didn’t show this to Marcus. He is so fearful of the Emperor’s wrath that he would have had half Glevum under lock and key. That old crow of a servant was taken to the jail and began singing like a blackbird. Claims that Phyllidia always hated Felix – even before the Octavius affair – because she thinks he poisoned her mother for bearing him no sons.’

  It bore out what Gaius had told me, but I had not expected Junio to know. ‘Where did you hear this?’

  Junio grinned. ‘In the servants’ room, while you were interviewing that gatekeeper. One of the slaves had visited the jail and came back bursting with gossip. All I had to do was listen – as you have always taught me, master.’

  I aimed a playful cuff at his ear, but he evaded me easily. He curled up at my feet, blew out the taper and was asleep in an instant.

  But I couldn’t sleep. The more I learned about this affair, the less sense it seemed to make.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Well, old friend?’ Marcus said indulgently next morning, when I presented myself, bright and early, to tender my report. He had allowed me into his presence before any other of his clientes and was reclining on his couch eating a breakfast of hot bread and spiced fruits. There was no sign of his new wife, but a thin secretary-slave squatted on a stool beside him, scribbling frantically on a wax tablet. Marcus waved him away at my approach, and gestured me to the stool.

  I gave him an account of the funeral, hinting – not without a touch of satisfaction – that I had deduced something significant. He went on eating his spiced fruit and regarding me with amusement. I reflected that the advent of a wife seemed to have improved his early-morning mood. Marcus was often bad-tempered at this hour.

  ‘So,’ he said, when I had finished, ‘you think you have the key to the mystery?’

  ‘Part of the mystery, Excellence,’ I corrected humbly. ‘A very small part, I am aware.’ I explained my theory about the mourner.

  ‘Very astute of you, my old friend.’ Marcus nodded sagaciously. This affability was beginning to worry me. I knew from experience that when Marcus addresses me with that air of good-natured condescension, he is about to produce a thunderbolt from somewhere.

  He did it now. ‘However, pavement-maker, I fear that the matter of how these men escaped the city is no longer as significant as it was. Last night, while you were at the funeral, I received some important news.’

  He paused theatrically. I knew better than to interrupt when my patron was making one of his dramatic declarations. I waited.

  ‘You will recall,’ he went on, ‘that I asked the commander of the garrison to make enquiries on the road to Eboracum? About that so-called Egobarbus and his party?’

  ‘You said that you would.’

  ‘Well, my friend, he was better than his word. Yesterday he sent a courier with a message to a little mansio halfway to Letocetum, an official way-station for the military post about a day’s march away. It was a short distance, for a horseman, and he had time to ask some questions in the area. There were some interesting results.’

  He pushed aside his platter and gestured to the slave at the door,
who hurried forward with water and napkins.

  Marcus extended his fingers to be washed, and went on, ‘It seems that Felix took a house near there for a day or two, before he came to Glevum. Paid gold for it, and insisted on solitude. The owner was to make it ready for him and then go away and leave him undisturbed.’

  The slave poured him a cup of watered wine and offered some to me. I took a little – to refuse entirely would have been insulting – and the servant retired. Marcus raised his drinking dish and looked at me questioningly over the rim of it. ‘What do you make of that?’

  It was so unforeseen, I could make nothing of it. But Marcus was clearly waiting for an answer. ‘The solitude you might expect,’ I ventured. ‘Felix would not care to share his lodgings with anyone. What surprises me is that he should rent a house at all.’

  Marcus’s grin broadened. ‘A most unlikely house it was too, by all accounts – a modest freeman’s dwelling less than four hours’ drive from here.’

  I frowned. ‘Why should he do that, Excellence? He had a carriage, and an imperial warrant too – the mansio itself would open its doors to him, offer him the best it could, and it would cost him nothing. Why would he choose to sleep in some rented hovel?’ I took a sip of sour wine.

  Marcus smiled. ‘That is just the point, my dear Libertus. He did not sleep there. Perhaps he never intended to. It seems he took the house for someone else. Or at least someone else stayed there. The owner did not know the name, and – after his instructions – did not dare approach, but he glimpsed the man, he says. A big red-haired Celt in a plaid with a long drooping moustache.’ Marcus tossed down his wine in a victorious gulp.

  I was so startled I almost choked on mine. ‘Egobarbus,’ I exclaimed, as he had no doubt hoped I would.

  Marcus set down his drinking cup. ‘You see what that suggests? The two men did know each other. Felix arranged the house himself, although he pretended only to have dealt with Egobarbus through an agent. Of course he would expect Egobarbus to come to him, and not the other way about, but why select a place like that, instead of arranging to have him quartered at a military inn at no cost to himself? He was carrying an imperial warrant. Or why not simply summon him to Glevum? I never trusted this visit. I knew he was plotting something – no doubt with the help of his bewhiskered friend.’ He glanced at me. ‘What are you frowning at?’

  ‘I was merely wondering, Excellence, why – if Felix met the man at the house, or even simply sent word where it was – he did not invite him to the banquet then. Of course, Felix did not know whose mansion he would have here, but he was clearly intending to demand a feast as soon as he arrived. But the guard at the gate was quite specific on the point. Felix sent his invitation only when he learned that the Celt was being held for questioning in Glevum.’

  ‘I cannot answer that,’ Marcus said tetchily. ‘But there was clearly a secret meeting between them. There is confirmation of that, from an unlikely source. The driver of the hired carriage, you remember?’

  I remembered only too well. I had hoped to question him myself.

  ‘You were right to think of it,’ Marcus said, magnanimously. ‘He did come back for payment, as you suggested. I had one of my guards waylay him and bring him in for interrogation. He was most co-operative.’

  I felt sure he was. My heart went out to the poor fellow whose only crime was first to carry a party of Celts who failed to pay him properly, and then to return to claim what was his. It was likely to have proved a painful experience. But Marcus does not share my doubts on such matters. I said, briefly, ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘That he was engaged by one of Egobarbus’s slaves in Letocetum. That is where he comes from. On a given day he was to drive along the Glevum road, pick up Egobarbus and his party from a house – the same house from his account of it – and bring them here.’

  ‘But not to take them from Letocetum to the house?’

  Marcus looked startled. ‘I had not thought of that. You are right, my old friend – it is a little odd.’ He motioned to the waiting slave to come and refill his cup. ‘Although the Celt was expecting to receive some money. The driver kept repeating that, whatever they did to him.’

  I winced.

  ‘He was promised a large sum,’ Marcus went on, ‘and payment for his return journey too. He arrived as arranged, but he had agreed a premium for a fourth passenger, and there were only three. When they got here the Celt refused to pay it.’

  ‘I have been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘That is odd too. Why should he demand an additional fare? Does he not have one of the devices on the wheels which counts the times they turn? I thought that was the agreed basis of all hiring charges now?’ The widespread introduction of the simple machine from Rome some years ago had enormously simplified the business of travelling – up to then the price of a carriage depended largely on chance, and how vulnerable you were to threat and extortion.

  ‘He needed to bring a bigger carriage, he says, instead of his usual lighter one. Three he could have managed, but not four. He swears he explained to the slave who hired him that there would have to be an extra charge. And then the Celt could not pay it – or would not. Instead he referred him back to Felix. And, remember, Felix arranged for the use of that house, and paid for it.’

  I took another sip of my own watered wine before I ventured, ‘Do you suppose, Excellence, that they arranged to meet there, and somehow failed to do it? That would explain the fourth place in the carriage. Intended for Felix, do you suppose?’

  Marcus looked at me. ‘Felix would have his imperial carriage. Why would he want to travel in that way?’

  I had no answer to that. ‘Perhaps it was not Felix himself,’ I suggested feebly. ‘There are others of his party. Phyllidia, for instance – or that maid of hers. Her custos – the guard who travelled with her. Zetso Octavius even.’ I did not believe it, even as I spoke. Perhaps the wine had fuddled my brain – I am not accustomed to strong drink in the morning. ‘Though of course they had their own transport too. We must find Egobarbus, Excellence, and ask him. He cannot have gone far.’

  ‘You can ask him, my old friend, but I doubt that he will help you.’ Marcus’s face took on the satisfied look of an arena lion after a tasty snack. He knew something that I didn’t, clearly, and he was making me work for it.

  I struggled for inspiration, and it came to me at last. ‘You have found him?’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘I have not found him, no, but it seems that someone may have.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Marcus raised his drinking cup as if to say, ‘Correct.’

  I was, frankly, surprised. That attack in the alley the day before had convinced me that the counterfeit Egobarbus was still alive, and presumably in the city somewhere. ‘Where?’

  ‘In that self-same house I was talking of. He must have done as you suggested, crept past the gates disguised as a funeral mourner, and made his way back there. It is not impossible to walk at night, if one is desperate.’

  ‘But, Excellence – those ruffians yesterday – I am convinced they were his slaves.’

  ‘I presume he went alone. He could hardly smuggle his servants through the gates with him.’

  It is dangerous to dispute with Marcus, but I could not let it pass. ‘But it is a day’s march. You are sure it is the same man?’ It occurred to me that this might be the missing passenger.

  ‘As sure as I can be. The owner of the house was questioned this morning when he returned to his home. A little later he came running to the mansio, saying that there was something in the well. A red-haired body, in plaid leggings.’

  It was not one of the slaves then. They wore simple tunics. And it was a Celtic gentleman. No one else in these islands wore trousers. But I was still doubtful. ‘Have they examined the body?’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘The owner tried to pull it up on his bucket but the weight broke the rope. But he thought he should report it, since the courier had been asking questions. I think he
was hoping the military would help him to retrieve the body. It will poison his water supply.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘I imagine so. I do not know with what results. The messenger was just leaving, as it happened. He galloped straight to Glevum and the commander sent word to me. However, since you were so keen to visit Eboracum, I thought of sending you. You can confirm it is the same man. I will give you a letter, with my seal, and they will entertain you at the mansio.’

  But this was not Eboracum, I wanted to shout. This was a poky military inn only a few miles away. But if my patron ordered me to go, I would have to do it.

  Marcus saw my face. ‘Cheer up, old friend. At least, if you make the journey, you will escape the necessity of attending another funeral. There will be a funus publicus for Felix in two days’ time. I have decreed it. The Emperor will expect some such public gesture.’

  I nodded. For these great state occasions a herald goes about the streets summoning all the citizens to attend and – whatever one’s dealings with the deceased – it is generally prudent to do so. It occurred to me with a shudder that at any other time it would have been Marcus’s herald that made the proclamation.

  ‘It will be a huge affair, with a decorated bier, trumpeters, hired dancers and a sung dirge,’ Marcus said. ‘I have given the instructions. If we are going to do it, we will do it properly.’

  I could not have escaped it – trailing along in the procession with the magistrates and dignitaries, the Vestal virgins, crowds of soldiers – horse and foot – and every citizen in the town. Always at the back, too, so that when the golden litter stopped (as it inevitably would) for fanfares and panegyrics, it would be quite impossible to hear a thing. Suddenly the prospect of this journey seemed much more attractive.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘You have no idea who this body is? Or was?’

  Marcus looked inscrutable. ‘I have some suspicions. The courier brought us this.’ From under the cushions at his side he produced a small parcel wrapped in linen cloth. He watched me as I opened it. It was a small glass bottle with a loop at the lip. A faint aroma of almonds still lingered about it.