Murder in the Forum Read online

  MURDER IN THE FORUM

  Rosemary Rowe

  Copyright © 2001 Rosemary Aitken

  The right of Rosemary Rowe to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2013

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  British Library Catalouing in Publication Data

  Rowe, Rosemary

  Murder in the forum

  1. Libertus (Fictitious character) – Fiction 2. Romans – Great Britain – Fiction 3. Slaves – Fiction 4. Great Britain – History – Roman period, 44 BC–449 AD – Fiction 5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9'14[F]

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 0507 0

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also By

  Dedication

  Author’s Foreword

  Roman Britain

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  About the Author

  Rosemary Rowe is the maiden name of author Rosemary Aitken, who was born in Cornwall during the Second World War. She is a highly qualified academic, and has written more than a dozen bestselling textbooks on English language and communication. She has written fiction for many years under her married name. Rosemary has two children and also two grandchildren living in New Zealand, where she herself lived for twenty years. She now divides her time between Gloucestershire and Cornwall.

  Also by Rosemary Rowe and available from Headline:

  The Germanicus Mosaic

  A Pattern of Blood

  Murder in the Forum

  The Chariots of Calyx

  The Legatus Mystery

  The Ghosts of Glevum

  Enemies of the Empire

  A Roman Ransom

  A Coin for the Ferryman

  For my daughter

  Author’s Foreword

  Murder in the Forum is set in 187 AD, when most of Britain had been for almost two hundred years the northernmost province of the hugely successful Roman Empire: occupied by Roman legions, subject to Roman laws and taxes, criss-crossed by Roman military roads, peppered with military inns and staging-posts, and presided over by a provincial governor answerable directly to Rome. The revered Emperor Marcus Aurelius was dead, and the Empire in the hands of his increasingly unbalanced son Commodus, who was more interested in excesses, debauchery and gladiatorial spectacles (in which he liked to take part) than in the business of government. This led to enormous power being left in the hands of the Prefects of Rome, including Tigidius Perennis – the notional kinsman of the fictional Perennis Felix who features in this book.

  The political tension which underlies the story, therefore, is historically attested and so are many of the political events alluded to in it. The rebellion of the lance-bearers of Britain, the consequent fall of Perennis, the appointment of Helvius Pertinax as Governor of Britain, and Commodus’s suspicion of everyone around him are all a matter of record. Indeed, Commodus may well have had cause to fear – his own sister had earlier attempted to have him assassinated, and some British legionaries did indeed favour Pertinax to take his place, although Pertinax – as suggested in the narrative – quelled the conspiracy firmly and denounced the ring-leaders.

  Commodus was more than Emperor; he regarded himself as a living god, the reincarnation of Hercules, and as such received the tributes and sacrifices of the people. His word was absolute. Any man carrying an imperial warrant carried the Emperor’s authority and therefore wielded considerable power. The wax seals which identified such documents were so important that they were often protected by ornate ‘seal boxes’ when in transit: failure to honour a duly-sealed warrant could carry the death penalty.

  Of course, for most inhabitants of Britain, such power-struggles were remote events and they were content to live their lives in the relative obscurity of the provincial towns and villages. Celtic traditions, settlements and languages remained, especially in the countryside, but after two centuries most townspeople had adopted Roman habits. Latin was the language of the educated, and Roman citizenship – with its commercial, social and legal status – the ambition of all. Citizenship was not at this time automatic, even for freemen, but a privilege to be earned (for those not lucky enough to be born to it) by service to the army or the Emperor, although slaves of important citizens (like Libertus) could be bequeathed the coveted status, along with their freedom, on the death of their masters.

  However, most ordinary people lacked that distinction: some were freemen or freed-men, scratching a precarious living from a trade or farm; thousands more were slaves, mere chattels of their masters, with no more status than any other domestic animal. Some slaves led pitiful lives, though others were highly regarded by their owners: indeed a well-fed slave in a kindly household might have a more enviable lot than many a freeman struggling to eke out an existence in a squalid hut.

  Roman civic building was very fine, even to the modern eye, and private mansions often boasted splendid mosaic pavements, under-floor heating, upper floors and even latrines. Town dwellings and apartments, however, usually lacked kitchens, and most town-dwelling Romans simply bought their food at the take-away stalls and tavernas which abounded in all centres of habitation. Wealthy men, such as Gaius in the story, might have kitchens, often mere annexes to the main building (because of the risk of fire) and built on the downhill of the house next to the latrine – in order to utilise the running water, where that was available. The presence of such a kitchen might well influence the choice of appropriate accommodation for a visiting dignitary – Roman banquet cooking was legendary for its splendour. (Country houses, which wealthy citizens such as Marcus possessed in addition to their town dwellings, were always equipped with elaborate kitchen blocks and it seems that many Celts continued to try to cook in their houses over an open fire, although chimneys were not commonplace. Most towns had a form of fire brigade.)

  There was, however, no civic rubbish collection – hence the pile of bones and waste outside of Gaius’s house. Middens are attested in the back streets of several towns at this time, although it appears that enterprising f
armers came (at night, when wheeled transport was permitted within the walls) to collect the stinking stuff to fertilise their fields, or it was slowly washed into the river by the rain.

  Power, of course, was vested almost entirely in men: although individual women might wield considerable influence and even own and manage large estates, females were excluded from civic office, and indeed a woman (of any age) remained a child in law, under the tutelage first of her father, and then of any husband she might have. Marriage officially required her consent (indeed she was entitled to leave a marriage if it displeased her, and take her dowry with her), but in practice many girls became pawns in a kind of property game since of course there were very few other careers available for an educated and wealthy woman. So girls were married, or married off, for the sake of a large dowry or to cement political alliances. The daughters of rich families, particularly ugly girls (such as Felix’s wife), were undoubtedly at a greater disadvantage in this regard than their poorer, and prettier sisters.

  The Romano-British background in this book has been derived from a wide variety of (sometimes contradictory) written and pictorial sources. However, although I have done my best to create an accurate picture, this remains a work of fiction and there is no claim to total academic authenticity. Commodus, Pertinax and Prefect Perennis are historically attested, as are the existence and (basic) geography of Corinium (modern Cirencester), Glevum (modern Gloucester) and Letocetum (modern Wall in Staffordshire).

  Relata refero. Ne Iupiter quidem omnibus placet. (I only tell you what I heard. Jove himself can’t please everybody.)

  ROMAN BRITAIN

  Chapter One

  The man lying outside the basilica was dead. Messily dead, the way a person is apt to be when he has been dragged for miles at the wheels of an official Roman carriage. As this man had obviously been.

  This was not a clever deduction on my part. The official Roman carriage in question was standing right in front of me, and the unfortunate victim was still attached to it, his hands bound to his sides, so that he could not protect his face, and the chains just long enough to protract the agony, allowing him to stumble after the cart until his heart was bursting, and then when he tripped – as he inevitably would – dragging him remorselessly headlong. The official Roman who must have given the instructions was still sitting smugly inside his conveyance.

  I looked at the hapless corpse and blanched. Not at the battered head and bloodied limbs – I had seen men executed this way before – but at the remnants of uniform which still adhered to the body. That scarlet tunic and golden edging meant one thing only: the wearer was a servant of my patron, Marcus Septimus Aurelius, the regional governor’s personal representative. In fact, I suspected that I knew the victim. It was hard to be sure, of course, after such a death, but I thought it was a rather pompous young envoy whom Marcus had once sent with me when I was investigating a crime: an arrogant, self-important youth, vain of his pretty looks.

  Not any more.

  I glanced at the smug Roman. Of course, he was a stranger (and carrying an official warrant to travel, or the carriage would not have been permitted within the gates during the hours of daylight), but one didn’t have to hail from Glevum to see that the man he had executed was no ordinary slave. Anyone sporting that fancy uniform was clearly the cherished possession of a particularly wealthy and powerful man. So either the man in the carriage was a passing imbecile who had lost the will to live, or he was a very important personage indeed.

  He saw me gawping. ‘Well?’ He threw open the door of his carriage. I realised that up until now he had been waiting for someone to do it for him, though his carriage-driver attendant was nowhere in evidence. He didn’t get out. ‘You! You are here to attend on Marcus Aurelius Septimus?’

  I gulped. There was no simple answer to this. Yes, I was there on my patron’s business, I had just been visiting his official rooms, but I was not exactly ‘attending’ him since he was twenty-odd miles away, doing a bit of ‘attending’ of his own. Marcus had recently lost his heart – or at least his inhibitions – to a wealthy widow in Corinium and he was there again, doubtless neglecting the affairs of state to pursue affairs of a more personal nature. I pondered my reply. The man in the carriage did not look as if he would have time for fine distinctions.

  I was right.

  ‘Well, are you or aren’t you? I want an audience with your master.’

  The tone alarmed me. It was deliberately insulting. Bad enough if I had been wearing my usual tunic and cloak, but (since I was visiting Marcus’s rooms) I was wearing a toga, which only citizens can wear. That should have ensured me a little respect: I was a Roman citizen as much as he was, and he could see that perfectly well. Yet the man addressed me as if I were a slave.

  I didn’t protest. I had just glimpsed the toga he was wearing. A purple edging-stripe is a sign of high birth or high office – the broader the better – and the smug Roman had a deep purple stripe so wide it seemed to reach halfway round his body. I have never seen so much purple on a single garment. On his finger glittered the largest seal-ring I have ever seen: even at this distance I could make out the intricate design. And he spoke in the strange clipped tones of the Imperial City itself. Mere citizenship would not protect me from this Roman, toga or no toga.

  I said, humbly, ‘Marcus is not here, Excellence.’

  ‘So I was told.’ He glanced disdainfully over his shoulder, towards the shattered body on the flagstones.

  I swallowed harder. This, presumably, was the news for which my poor vain, arrogant friend had paid with his life. I was talking to an old-style Roman then. Perhaps the man had imperial connections. The Emperor Commodus, too, was said regularly to execute messengers who brought unwelcome tidings. That kind of casual barbarity was rarer in Glevum, under my patron’s comparatively benevolent eye – though Marcus was an Aurelian himself, and rumoured to have connections in the very highest places.

  I, however, had none and that was worrying me. I was a mere freed-man, and although I had been awarded citizen status on the death of my ex-master, Marcus was my only protector.

  A crowd was beginning to gather at the verandaed stalls on the other side of the forum, keeping a discreet distance, but pointing and whispering with undisguised curiosity. The Roman was beginning to look dangerous. Clearly he was not accustomed to being goggled at by a raggletailed crowd like this: slaves, thieves, shoppers, beggars, scribes and stallholders, to say nothing of itinerant butchers, pie-sellers, cobblers, bead-merchants, turnip-sellers and old-clothes men. Equally clearly, he didn’t like it. I wished I had my patron’s protection now.

  But at this moment, Marcus was a day’s journey away, his envoy was dead, and I was about to bring this visitor even more unwelcome tidings. Marcus was not only absent, he was likely to be away for some days. I felt that the information might be injurious to my health.

  I said carefully, ‘I am sure, Excellence, my patron would wish to entertain you, if he were here . . .’

  The eyes which met mine were stonier than those of the painted basalt Jupiter on the civic column behind me. Their owner was about as communicative as the statue, too. He said nothing. The silence was deafening.

  ‘If only, most revered Excellence, I knew whom I had the honour of addressing . . .’ I mumbled, keeping myself at a respectful distance, and ensuring that my bowing and shuffling meant that my head stayed decently lower than his. This wasn’t easy, since he was still sitting in the carriage and I was standing on the flagstones outside, but I managed it. Marcus calls me an ‘independent thinker’, but I can grovel as abjectly as the next man when the moment demands. Even my best grovelling produced no flicker of a thaw in the Roman’s manner, but it did provoke a response.

  ‘My name is Lucius Tigidius Perennis Felix. Remember it.’

  I was hardly likely to forget it. Some years ago a man called Tigidius Perennis had held the post of Prefect of Rome, and become the most feared and powerful man in the world after the Emperor C
ommodus himself. Of course, this was not the same Perennis. That particular Prefect had long since fallen from favour, and been handed to the mob for lynching. But that only made this man the more dangerous. Anyone who bore the Perennis name and survived was obviously someone to be reckoned with.

  Most of the Prefect’s family had been executed with him, so any relative – especially a namesake – must have enjoyed special protection to escape as this man had. I realised, with some dismay, that I was probably talking to a favourite of the Emperor himself. That would explain the nickname ‘Felix’ – the fortunate – and why the man was now driving around the Empire on an official warrant, with an imperial carriage at his command.

  I said, fervently, ‘I shall not forget it, Excellence. Your name is written on my very soul.’

  That was no lie. Branded on my brain would have been nearer the truth. In fact the more I thought about it, the more alarmed I became. This man was an imperial favourite – and although Commodus called himself ‘Britannicus’ this was not his best-loved island. There had been several military plots here to overthrow him, and to install the governor, Pertinax, as Emperor in his place – that self-same Pertinax who was Marcus’s particular friend and patron. Of course, the plots had been put down, by Pertinax himself, but Commodus still suspected conspiracy on every hand – and here was his emissary from Rome, looking for Marcus.

  Yesterday the official augurers at the temple had warned of ‘unexpected storms’. I liked the arrival of Perennis Felix less and less.

  My feelings must have been showing in my face. Felix, for the first time, allowed himself to smile slightly. It was not an attractive smile and his voice was positively poisonous as he said, sweetly, ‘A problem, citizen?’

  I had, at least, acquired the courtesy of a title. I was debating whether ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was the less dangerous answer to his question when we were interrupted by the arrival of a swarthy soldier striding down the basilica steps at the head of a delegation of magistrates. That alone was enough to confirm his status – this was Felix’s driver. No ordinary soldier would dare to force the civic dignitaries into second place. He did not so much as glance at me as he strode past me to the carriage and, assisting his passenger to the pavement (as if Felix was a delicate woman instead of a strong and very ugly man), engaged him at once in hushed and private conversation.