Murder in the Forum

by Rosemary Rowe

  ‘So!’ Junio said eagerly. ‘You have it in your hands, master. Conclusive proof that there was a conspiracy. Zetso may not have killed his master, but he certainly planned to.’

  ‘This message certainly puts a new complexion on the matter, Junio, though I confess I still do not altogether understand it. However, on one point I have been peculiarly stupid. I should have noticed the seal. Go quickly now and find the octio. We will have need of his soldiers after all.’

  Junio gave me another startled look and disappeared again, while I tried rather ineffectually to rouse myself by rinsing my face and neck in a bowl of water which my slave had set in readiness the night before. If I was right I needed my wits about me, and I was beginning to regret the several goblets of spiced mead that I had allowed myself the night before.

  We were none too soon in reaching the octio. Soldiers keep early hours. The contingent was already afoot and preparing for the day’s march.

  The octio came in, his natural air of assertive bustle restored now that Zetso had left us. He was ready to be obliging, though – I still held Marcus’s warrant in my pouch. ‘How can I assist you, citizen?’

  I outlined what I wanted, and the affability flowed out of him like dye from an octopus. A little of his confidence went with it. ‘Citizen, I already have my orders. This is impossible. We could escort you to Letocetum if you wished it – but to arrest that horseman again, with that warrant still in his pocket? And then abandon our march and return with him to Glevum? That is more than my life is worth.’

  I could hardly blame him for this. He was speaking literally, if a charge of disobeying orders was proved against him. He was not even a centurion, only a second-in-command. If I was wrong in my deductions I was risking not only my life, but his. And, although he did not know it, I was about to flout the Emperor’s own warrant. My only hope lay in an appeal to rank.

  ‘Listen, octio,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster, ‘Helvius Pertinax is governor of this island. Every soldier in it is under his command. I issue you this order in the name of Pertinax, on the authority of the seal I hold.’ I held up the wax tablet. ‘I assure you it has more authenticity than this one.’

  He glanced at the little recess on the tablet-cover where Felix’s seal still nestled on its broken cord, and his jaw dropped – for all the world like a mime at a banquet caricaturing surprise. For once I had occasion to bless the ugly Roman’s taste for ostentation. One could almost see the octio’s brain working. I could not have cut an impressive figure at that moment, in my tousled tunic with pieces of bed-straw still adhering to me – but if I had the authority to unseal that tablet, and boast of it in front of witnesses, I must be more important than he thought.

  I said, to encourage him, ‘I have doubts about that warrant he was carrying, too.’

  He ran a thoughtful tongue around his lips. ‘Of course, citizen, when you put it that way . . . But surely, by the time we get to Letocetum, the man may easily have gone? He is an excellent rider, and he has a night’s advantage on us, and in any case my men are on foot.’

  He was right, of course, and I acknowledged that. ‘Nevertheless, it is my guess that he will stay there for a while. He speaks of “others” in that tablet – it will take him a little time to find them all.’

  The octio looked doubtfully at the unsealed tablet again. ‘But, citizen, even if he is still in the vicinity, how will you know where to look? Letocetum is not a large settlement but it is far bigger than this. There was most of a legion stationed there at one time, and a whole little vicus grew up around it. Besides, Letocetum is a meeting of the ways. If he has left, how will you know whether he went to Deva, Danum or Londinium?’

  He was right, again. The fellow had more knowledge of the roads than I did. ‘There is a good chance that he will not have left,’ I said, with more certainty than I felt. ‘He does not expect to be followed. Once he has found his contacts, there is no need for hurry. And as for finding him in the village, that should not be difficult. Zetso spoke of Egobarbus bursting in on a meeting “in the house”. Glevum is a large colonia, but any inhabitant could tell you everywhere that Felix visited. He was not an inconspicuous person. I imagine in a small village, even on a crossroads, such information should be easy to obtain.’

  The octio swallowed and nodded. He was clearly very unhappy. ‘In a while then. I must see my men are fed, and then we shall be on the road. Your servant, citizen.’ He went out, looking like a religious prisoner on the way to the arena.

  I too had breakfast to attend to, although here it would be a miserable Roman affair of bread and water, with an apple if one was lucky. Oatcakes are a Celtic taste. I could find it in my heart to envy the soldiers their morning issue of thin, watery vegetable soup – the army, at least, recognises that a man must eat before he marches.

  I was swallowing my crust of bread (no apples), and hoping that the taxman would not waken and join me, when the octio burst in on me again.

  ‘Apologies, citizen,’ he blurted, looking askance at Junio who was scrambling to his feet from my side with his mouth full of breadcrumbs, ‘but I have a solution. You could send ahead to Letocetum – there is a postrider newly arrived from Isca, with urgent orders for the garrison there. He will pause only to eat and to exchange his horse, and – although it is irregular – no doubt he could alert the garrison of your wishes. There is still a small vexillation posted there, in case of any repeat of that regrettable Boudicca affair.’

  He was so delighted with his solution, which would relieve him of the necessity of arresting Zetso, that he forgot I was a Celt and that for me the ill-fated revolt of the fearless queen of the Iceni was less regrettable than tragic. However, I did not dwell on that. I had the courier sent for, and gave him instructions for the commander of the little holding garrison at Letocetum. On the assumed authority of Pertinax, naturally. All the gods preserve me, if I was wrong.

  ‘The fellow claims to be holding a warrant,’ I said. ‘But I believe that the seal is worthless. He is to be arrested and held until I arrive with the guard, and then I will take him back to Glevum to face trial. I believe he poisoned one of my countrymen, and perhaps conspired to kill his master besides, although I cannot prove it at the moment.’

  It was all one to the courier; he was not required to arrest Zetso himself. He repeated my message faithfully, word for word, and assured me that it would be delivered to the vicus before noon. With a little help from the Fates, he added, that should ensure that Zetso was captured and waiting for me when I arrived in the evening. If he thought it odd in any way, taking these outrageous orders from an elderly civilian in a tunic, he did not betray it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

  After he had departed, I finished my meagre breakfast and we were ready to depart ourselves. It was a slower business, moving in concert with the marching soldiers, but for a man of my mature years it was a good deal more comfortable. It was amusing too, bowling through little hamlets with an armed escort – more than one labourer, under the impression that I was some important personage, stopped to throw leaves of tribute under our wheels and half prostrate himself as I passed.

  It was late afternoon before we came to Letocetum. The mansio was not much bigger than the one we had left, and only partially completed, although the enclosure here was more elaborate, a paved compound protected by a rampart and ditch with the road running through the middle of it. I left Junio to settle in at the inn, while I drove on to the fort which was built on a commanding hilltop nearby.

  The courier had been better than his word. I was expected, and with urgency. As soon as our contingent came in sight – obviously the soldiers would spend the night at the camp rather than the mansio – the commander of the post came bustling out to meet me, in full regalia: an effect rather spoiled by the sight of his armourer scuttling after him to tie up one of the leather bows that held the polished chestplates at the back.

  If he was surprised to see a togaless old man emerging
from the carriage he did not show it – perhaps the courier had alerted him. It was clear, however, that he was in some agitation.

  ‘Hail, citizen.’ He raised his hand in salute as though I were indeed representing Helvius Pertinax in person. ‘I have good news to report. The individual you were seeking has been apprehended, and is in confinement awaiting your arrival. He had no letters with him.’ He avoided my eyes in obvious embarrassment. ‘I presume you are aware that he appears to be travelling under an imperial warrant? He keeps referring to his “seal”. I hope you are right about him. I am holding him solely on your supposed authority.’

  I gave a short laugh, which was supposed to sound dismissive. The officer’s manner left me in no doubt of the dreadful consequences of error. ‘Have you examined the seal?’

  ‘No, citizen, that was not in my instructions. I have left that to you. I prefer to involve myself as little as possible. If it proves authentic . . .’ He did not complete the sentence. He did not need to. If I was wrong the only question remaining was which agonising death awaited me: being burned alive for treasonably ignoring the imperial warrant, or being crucified for bringing false accusations against its bearer. Commodus was not only the most powerful man in this world, he was (according to the law) an incarnate deity.

  I tried to still my thumping heart by reminding myself of the equally unpleasant consequences – at least for a non-citizen like Zetso – of passing off a lesser seal as the Emperor’s. That made me feel a little better until I remembered that I had rashly claimed to have the governor’s authority, in a not dissimilar fashion. I took a deep breath.

  ‘The matter is soon settled,’ I said. ‘Lead me to the man.’

  They had tried to ride both horses, as the saying goes. Zetso had been detained, but in a warm and well-aired room in a little outbuilding beside the tower. He was unfettered, and had been allowed to keep his possessions, with a stool, blanket and pillow at his disposal. Bread, cheese, fruit and watered wine had been thoughtfully provided. If Zetso were proved innocent, he could not complain to the Emperor about his treatment at the hands of the guard.

  He looked up sullenly at my approach, and from the look on his face I was certain of my victory. I wasted no words.

  ‘That worthless warrant you carry,’ I said, with a dramatic flourish. ‘Give it to the officer.’

  Zetso said nothing, but produced the scroll and handed it to the soldier. I have never seen a man look more defeated.

  The officer looked at the elaborate seal-box in dismay.

  ‘Open it,’ I said. ‘And let us all see how valueless it is.’

  The man obeyed. I saw his hands tremble as he forced the box open and revealed the flamboyant seal within. His face, when he saw it, was a picture of amazement. Wordless, he handed it to me.

  I took it with a little smile, which died upon my lips. The warrant that I held in my hands was sealed, beyond a doubt, with the great imperial seal of the Emperor Commodus himself.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  They threw me into a cell, without light or water, to shiver miserably on the stone floor, while they considered what to do with me.

  I learned later that I was lucky to escape execution. Only the protestations of Marcus’s carriage-driver that I was indeed a Roman citizen, enjoying the personal protection of Marcus Aurelius Septimus, saved me a brutal flogging there and then. At my age I would have been lucky to survive it. As it was, the testimony of a terrified Junio, marched up from the inn, and the production of the all-important document from Marcus, saved my life.

  Of course, I did not know this at the time, so I did not know whether to hope or despair when they came for me a little later. Two silent and surly guards hauled me to my feet. They bound my arms, and – ignoring both my questions and my explanations – took me in silence to the jailer’s own quarters, to spend an uncomfortable night on his lumpy mattress with a regiment of fleas for company, and a lump of sour bread and sourer wine for sustenance.

  It did not matter. I could not have slept or eaten if all the pleasures of Bacchus were spread out at my feet. In the brief intervals between the bouts of terror I was racked by a kind of self-reproach. I had been so sure that the seal was worthless and that Zetso knew that it was. And I was convinced, on every rational ground, that he had poisoned Egobarbus. Yet he had equally convinced me that he did not think he had.

  The man must be a consummate performer. That was, perhaps, why he had been so useful to his master. Whom he had in the end, it seemed, conspired to murder. And now they would let him go. I would be executed; even if I could send to Marcus and he commuted the sentence to ‘interdiction’, by which a man is legally refused the necessities of fire and water, that would come to the same thing in the end, only more slowly. I could not flee into exile like that citizen in the matrimonial case. The tribunes would never let me go, and I should die in prison, a nasty lingering death of cold and thirst. But there was no certainty that I could even send to Marcus.

  And Junio, what would happen to poor Junio?

  My thoughts tormented me almost as much as the fleas. Through the little window space above the bed I strained my eyes against the dark until the stars faded and the chill light of dawn began to brighten the sky. I wondered whether I should ever see it again.

  I was soon to know.

  It was hardly sunrise before the secundarius marched into the room. He was boiling with truculence and indecision, though he tried to hide it, and I realised that I had created a dilemma for my captors. Free Zetso, and they risked offending Pertinax: free me, and there was likely to be a complaint to the Emperor. The officer’s solution was born of desperation.

  ‘I’ll pack you both off to Glevum,’ he announced. ‘Shackled and under guard. Pertinax has gone to Glevum; he can take care of it. I shall send that so-called imperial warrant with you, to be used as evidence. Then we shall see if that authority was real.’

  I felt myself pale. Since I had claimed the governor’s authority, without his approval, I was guilty of a crime myself. I had usurped his authority, and in his name defied the Emperor. That would endanger Pertinax and I could expect no mercy. But there was still a glimmer of hope. Pertinax was a friend of Marcus, and my patron at least would intercede for me.

  Or would he? The Emperor was not a man to cross.

  The secundarius shook his head like a maddened bear in the arena. ‘I do not understand you,’ he roared, suddenly. ‘You bear false witness in front of witnesses: he carries an imperial warrant which should prove his case. Yet you look hopeful and he seems in despair. I shall be glad to see the back of both of you.’

  I had feared a long weary march to reach our destination – wearier yet under the weight of chains – but it appeared that after all this was not to be. They tied us in ropes, not fetters, and put us in a cart – standing, it is true, but a considerable improvement on the heart-straining, foot-blistering trudge I had envisaged. Instead it was our guard that would have to march, four armed soldiers ahead and two behind. Fortunately, being soldiers, they were trained for it.

  Junio, bizarrely, was permitted to return to Glevum with Marcus’s coach and driver, although without me he obviously could not ride inside the carriage. Instead he perched up on the seat beside the driver, carrying my patron’s warrant in case of being stopped and questioned.

  I was being hoisted into the cart as they pulled away, and I stood there helpless, hands bound to my sides, and watched my servant go, until the carriage disappeared from sight and the rattle and the hoofbeats died away. Without slave, toga or warrant I was triply vulnerable: just an unknown ex-slave being hustled onto an open waggon. I had never felt so bereft since the day I was taken into servitude.

  Then Zetso was hauled up after me, and it was our turn to set off. No swift horses for our cart, only a pair of plodding army mules, and as soon as they were urged into action we discovered the shortcomings of our position. We were loosely tied to rings high up on the front end of the cart but – though this kep
t us more or less upright – every rut and pebble meant a buffeting, since we had no hand free with which to steady ourselves. Almost before we were out of the fort Zetso and I were falling painfully against each other, exchanging looks of mutual hostility. I set myself the task of keeping silent, whatever the bruising, and found that the concentration helped me to bear the jolts.

  An escort of soldiers has advantages. At the junction where the two roads crossed we met a convoy of waggons bound for Londinium, but since we were military traffic and they were civilians, despite their larger numbers they had to clear the road to let us pass. There was a brief respite as a score of carters, sweating and swearing, urged their heavy waggons onto the uneven verge.

  ‘Taking all this collection down to sell.’ The driver of the leading cart addressed one of our escort apologetically. ‘Belonged to a wealthy widow who died of the pox, and her son has ordered it. Better price in Verulanium Londinium, he says, though I cannot see it. Who would want to buy this load of junk? Older than the old lady herself, most of it, and more decrepit. And as for the slaves, there can hardly be one under thirty.’

  The guard ignored him, and we rattled past. I saw the cart of slaves, at the end of the procession. They were roped as we were, though a little more secure since there were a dozen of them, all of them with faces of dull despair. All female, of course – any useful manservant would have found a home at once with the heirs – and all of them faded. Only one had a face which might once have been beautiful – might be so yet if that terrible weariness left it.

  As we rumbled past she lifted her eyes, and looked towards us expressionlessly. Embarrassed, I averted mine. And then looked back. Something – the curve of the cheek, the shape of the brow – stirred recollection in me. I forgot my vow of silence.

  ‘Gwellia!’

  I leaned forward, almost losing my balance as I called, and lurching into Zetso. The guard behind me muttered a curse and swiped at me with his baton. I did not care.