The Chariots of Calyx Read online

  After what Junio had told me, I did not expect to learn anything more from questioning the household. ‘I have a more pressing matter to attend to,’ I explained. ‘My slave will be back in a moment with a litter. I hope to visit the charioteers in Verulamium, before the festival is over and the teams go on elsewhere.’

  She nodded grimly. ‘So you are going to take my advice, at last. I am very glad to hear it. Perhaps now you will get on with it and search out that scoundrel who murdered my son.’

  ‘Indeed, madam, I hope to speak to Fortunatus soon,’ I said, and was rewarded with a grim smile as I moved towards the door. Instead of walking through it, however, I turned and looked at her. ‘Though there is one more thing I wish to ask you before I leave. I believe you have a necklace like the one that was used to strangle Monnius. A triple-stranded silver chain?’

  She frowned. ‘I do. But surely that one was Fulvia’s? What else would Fortunatus use?’

  ‘It was not Fulvia’s, madam citizen. She has it with her. And Lydia is wearing hers – I noted it a moment ago. Can you produce yours?’

  Annia Augusta flushed. ‘I can. At least, I can account for where it is. I lost one of the small stones set into the chain, and Monnius sent it to the jewel merchant to have the gem replaced. I suppose it is still in the workshop. It would be easy to check.’ She looked at me suddenly. ‘You are surely not suggesting, citizen, that I strangled my son? I would have more wit than to do it with my own necklace if I did.’

  And that, I thought, as I followed her meekly back through the house, was certainly true. Unless she had done it with her own necklace hoping that everyone would reason in that way.

  As with many town houses, there was no way to the entrance except via the atrium, and I was obliged to sidle my way round the edge though the funeral bier was now laid out in the open space at the back of it, and the extravagant rituals of official grief were being observed. Fulvia was still there, tunefully lamenting, while the pipers wailed and the professional keeners beat their breasts and wept. Pine cones had been added to the braziers, to disguise the smell of human corruption, and the air was heavy with the scent of candles, incense and herbs.

  I went into the entrance passage and the doorkeeper nodded at me from his niche as I passed. ‘Water and fire in those pots, citizen. On the lady Lydia’s orders. She said to tell you they were there, so you could purify yourself properly.’ I must have looked startled – this formality was not usually observed by mere visitors to a house. He winked. ‘Always a stickler for fulfilling observances, the lady Lydia.’

  I obliged, and was stepping obediently over the ‘fire’ (a small metal bowl with a few coals burning in it) when a thought occurred to me.

  ‘Last night,’ I said, rinsing my hands solemnly in the perfumed water, and drying them on the small towel provided, thereby ‘washing my hands of death’ in the approved Roman fashion, ‘did you see all the feasters leave the house?’

  He was suddenly sober. ‘Oh yes, citizen. And their slaves. The master was always terrified of plots against him, and I was always most careful to see that everyone had gone.’ He looked anxious now. ‘The other servants will bear me out. You will tell the governor that, won’t you? Annia Augusta will have me whipped as it is, for falling asleep at my post, and if they think I allowed one of the feasters to hide in the house . . . dear Jupiter! I shall be lucky to come out of it alive. And then I let that Eppaticus in this morning – oh, merciful gods!’ He began to pluck at my toga in agitation.

  I handed him the towel to occupy his hands, and hastened past him out of the door. What a household of tensions, I thought. It was quite a relief to get out into the open air again. Junio was there, with the same litter which had carried me to the house earlier – it was at my disposal for the day, I learned, and had been standing by for further instructions, on the orders of the governor. Junio helped me in, and we set off again at a brisk pace.

  In no time at all we were back at the palace. We swept in through the gates, and the crowds of people who had business with the governor and were jostling in the courtyards stood back to let us pass. There were dozens of them, of every age and class, dressed in everything from tunics to togas. I realised for the first time what an immense administrative burden Pertinax must bear, in addition to his military duties – no wonder he had a household of scribes and secretaries at his disposal, as well as guards and sentries, though of course even the clerks were officers seconded from the army.

  The governor was in council when we arrived, so a long-nosed secretary told us as we were ushered into the palace. Nevertheless, the man condescended to carry a message when he discovered who I was. He provided a wax tablet, on which I scratched a few words, and bore it off importantly, leaving me standing in the colonnaded entrance. I felt rather foolish and conspicuous, especially as other appellants (some of them important people, judging by the wide patrician stripes on their togas) were being turned away or briskly told to come back tomorrow when the governor would receive them. People were gazing at me curiously, and whispering behind their hands.

  After what seemed an eternity the long-nosed clerk returned, his manner now entirely respectful. ‘The governor’s apologies,’ he murmured abjectly, ‘but he was unable to leave the meeting. However, your requests are being dealt with, and a carriage-driver is being found to take you to Verulamium without delay. His Excellence has given you this’ – he handed me a letter-scroll of bark, sealed with the governor’s personal seal – ‘which will ensure you lodging at any military post. He is sending you a small purse to defray expenses, and if you like to go to the triclinium he has ordered a light repast for you before you undertake the journey. There is a meal awaiting your slave, too, in the servants’ quarters.’

  I blessed Pertinax for his swift and generous response, and went to partake of the ‘light repast’ as suggested, a good, simple meal of cold meat and fruits. I was in the process of washing it down with a large jug of cool, clean water when the serving boy sidled up to me and murmured apologetically in my ear.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, citizen, but there is someone wishing to see you. Urgently, he says, before you leave.’

  I glanced towards the doorway indicated. Superbus stood there, although there was no longer anything superb about him. He looked shocked and ruffled, his immaculate tunic crumpled and torn at the neck, and as he came towards me in answer to my signal I saw that he was hobbling a little. One of his smart sandals was broken, although he still approached with as much formality as he could muster. It gave him a kind of touching dignity.

  ‘Superbus,’ I said in greeting. ‘What has happened to you?’

  He bowed gravely. ‘I was attempting to fulfil your orders, citizen, when I had an altercation in the market.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  Superbus heaved a reproachful sigh. ‘I had been asking questions, citizen, as you directed, trying to find out about Eppaticus – though contrary to your expectations, no one seemed to know anything, at least not anything that they were willing to tell me. The moment I so much as mentioned his name, everyone suddenly became secretive. No one would admit to having dealings with him. He trades in this and that, was all I could discover. Wine two months ago, slaves last month, anything – it differs from month to month.’

  That in itself was interesting. I had already suspected that some of Eppaticus’ activities were on the outskirts of the law. If his customers were less than helpful, it was almost certainly because they were afraid of the aediles, the market police – or of what Eppaticus himself would do to them if they betrayed him to the authorities.

  But Superbus had not become dishevelled simply by questioning people who were too frightened to talk. ‘And then?’ I prompted.

  ‘And then,’ he said, in an affronted tone, ‘when I was just about to give up and come away, a big fat Celt in plaid trousers and a tunic came up behind me in an alley. Grabbed me by the shoulder, pushed me against the wall,
and wanted to know why one of the governor’s slaves was hanging around asking questions about Eppaticus.’ He looked at me resignedly. ‘I imagine that he recognised my tunic borders. The palace servants are well known in the market.’

  I nodded, rather guiltily. I had guessed something of the kind. ‘And what did you tell him?’

  A strange expression crossed Superbus’ face, a mixture of self-congratulation and defensiveness. ‘I told him I was interested in buying one of the slaves.’

  ‘Well done, Superbus!’ I said, with more surprise than was altogether tactful. It was a more quick-witted strategy than I’d expected from him. It was entirely plausible for one thing – senior slaves in important households sometimes did have slaves of their own. It was more for status than anything, and in that case buying from someone like Eppaticus – selling old and worn-out slaves at a knock-down price – might well look like a better proposition than paying full price at the slave auction. ‘What did the man say?’

  Superbus looked uncomfortable. ‘He wanted to know how much I was willing to pay. I didn’t want to offer a price, but he insisted, and in the end I suggested a figure. A very low one, of course.’

  I winced. Under Roman law agreeing a price is tantamount to fixing a bargain, and Superbus seemed to have bought himself a slave, sight unseen. I could only imagine what kind of broken-down, or even diseased, individual he would find himself in possession of, and how he would provide for such a creature here in the palace. Most slave-owning slaves are very senior in the household hierarchy.

  ‘So you have acquired a slave?’

  He swallowed. ‘Not yet, citizen. That is what enraged the Celtic gentleman. I didn’t have the money with me.’

  ‘Even though he picked you up by your tunic and shook you till your teeth rattled?’ I suggested.

  Superbus nodded.

  ‘Then you have had a lucky escape,’ I said. ‘Now he will have to provide the goods in order to demand the money, and you will be able to escape from the bargain.’ I grinned. ‘Unless of course you want to buy a slave.’

  I meant it as a jest but Superbus coloured, and I realised that his quick response had not been due entirely to cunning.

  ‘In any case,’ I went on, ‘you wouldn’t want one of those Eppaticus was selling. They were last month’s commodity, you said, so by this time he’ll only have the leftovers that no one else wanted to buy.’ Superbus looked so chastened at this observation that I hurried to change the subject. ‘Did you discover, by the way, whether he ever dealt in grain?’

  Superbus’ face fell still further. ‘I am sorry, citizen. It did not occur to me to ask.’

  I smiled. ‘Perhaps that is just as well. If Eppaticus is edgy about questions, as it seems that he is, asking about the grain trade might have been distinctly dangerous.’

  ‘You think my assailant was Eppaticus, citizen?’

  ‘I don’t think so, from your description,’ I said. ‘The most striking thing about Eppaticus is his height. And he did not wear trousers. More likely one of his attendants. But not a man to trifle with, all the same. Fortunately he won’t come looking for you here – the palace guard would soon see him off. Just make sure you keep away from the market for a while – in fact, it might be better if you did not leave the palace at all. A pity. I had hoped to send you to find the jeweller who made this necklace for Annia Augusta.’ I took out the bloodstained article from my pouch, still wrapped in its piece of protective linen. ‘Never mind, I will send it to Pertinax and ask him to despatch someone else to make enquiries.’

  Superbus nodded, and withdrew, still hobbling. I finished my meal, and entrusted the necklace to the table-slave, who promised to deliver it to the governor with my request. When I joined Junio on the steps of the palace, he had already collected my few possessions for the journey.

  The next few hours passed in a dreadful dream. Pertinax had been as good as his word, and an imperial gig was waiting to transport us. Gigs are a light, swift, open form of transport, and can rattle along the cobbled roads quicker than any closed carriage ever invented. On the other hand, any open carriage is at best a draughty affair, even if there is not a stiff breeze blowing, and ‘rattle’ is the operative word. We bounced and lurched northwards the whole long afternoon, through a countryside busy with agriculture. None of the wild lands that surrounded Glevum, here. Little hamlets had sprung up around the road for miles, and even when these had been left behind, much of the woodland had been cleared, and every valley seemed to have its little farm – sometimes a Roman villa, sometimes a Celtic roundhouse – each with its own assortment of animals, crops and fields of next year’s grain.

  On we plunged, terrifying ox carts and mule waggons as we passed, swaying wildly up hills and still more wildly down them, while I clutched my narrow wooden bench with both hands and Junio crouched miserably at my feet.

  And then, just when I thought that I could endure it no longer, we stopped at little mansio, an official staging post. But not for long. Time enough to change the horses and swallow a welcome drink of watered wine, and off we went, to repeat the whole bone-juddering experience again.

  Even so, it was dark before we got to Verulamium. There was a brief argument at the gatehouse before they would admit us, but a glimpse of the governor’s seal and warrant, even by the uncertain light of a flaming torch, was enough to have the guards change their minds in a panic, and not only let us in, but organise stabling for the horses and have Junio and me escorted personally, and with fulsome apologies, to the commander.

  Verulamium, like the capital, has maintained a small garrison-fort inside the town ever since the Boudicca uprising more than a century ago, and it was there that we were taken. The commander was in the praetorium having a supper party in the privacy of his home, but the official seal worked its charms again, and he did his best to offer hospitality at the garrison. I have a dim memory of being seated on a wooden stool beside a fire, and given a hearty meal of warm army bean-stew and coarse brown bread, before I was shown to a small, sparsely furnished chamber in the barracks, usually reserved for passing messengers.

  A small brazier and an oil-lamp were promised, but I stretched out on the clean bunk bedding at once, pulled a blanket over me, and, with my young slave lying in another bunk at my feet, had closed my eyes and was fast asleep before anyone had time to return with the expected items. It had been an exhausting day.

  Even so, one image haunted my sleep. The floor in Caius Monnius’ study had been lifted, and in my dreams I could see clearly what I had only glimpsed in those few moments before I had been interrupted. The secret hiding place beneath the floor was crammed almost to bursting with bags of silver coins. I did a rapid calculation. There must have been five thousand denarii at least: that is to say, at current market rates, roughly twenty thousand sesterces.

  ‘What was it doing there?’ I murmured as I slept. ‘And what becomes of Annia’s theory now?’ But my lost Gwellia, who always stalked my dreams, only smiled mysteriously and vanished like smoke before I could touch her with my hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning we were woken by a soldier, a double-pay officer in full uniform, who brought us a breakfast of hard wheaten biscuits and thin wine.

  ‘Standard army rations,’ he told me, with a smile, ‘though the commander has sent you some fruit in too, seeing that you come from the governor. Oh, and I am to give you his apologies, citizen. He didn’t want to rouse you early, but I think you said you wanted to attend the chariot racing? It is already an hour after dawn, and if you and your servant want to be sure of a seat...?’

  We did. Junio was on his feet almost before the optio had finished speaking, and was already splashing cold water enthusiastically from the jug beside the door into a large bowl which he had found on the stone bench. Very cold water, I suspected, since the promised brazier had never arrived, and I eyed these preparations rather reluctantly from the comfortable warmth of my bed, while the optio bowed himself out with p
romises to return as soon as I was ready to leave. He would personally escort us to the stadium – on the commander’s express instructions.

  I was dressed only in my tunic, but I rose and stood shivering on the stone floor while Junio rinsed my hands and face. Then I gnawed my way through some breakfast and allowed myself to be dressed once more in my toga, though Junio was so excited by the prospect of the day ahead that he had to make two attempts at draping the cloth. He was so eager and anxious to be gone that I took pity on him in the end and fastened my own sandals, while he crammed food into his mouth. When I looked up he was standing ready at the door, before he had really finished swallowing. Army biscuits are said to breed hard men – certainly they exercise the jaws.

  I clapped Junio on the shoulder and we set off together.

  The optio, true to his word, was waiting outside the door, and as soon as we made an appearance he took up a place beside me, gesturing for two other members of his company to bring up front and rear. Junio had naturally stepped deferentially behind me, so I found myself forming the central part of a little procession as we walked out of the barracks. The guards at the gate of the fort moved smartly to let us through, and in the streets outside, the townsfolk stood even more hastily aside, abandoning their business to whisper and goggle at us as we went by.

  I am not used to being stared at, and I found myself falling into step with the soldiers and marching along rather importantly, the townsfolk in the busy streets parting before us like cheese under a cook’s cleaver.

  ‘Wonder what he’s done, poor fellow,’ I heard a trader mutter, as he and his laden donkey tried to squeeze themselves into a doorway to let us pass. I suppose I did look as if I were under some kind of military arrest. I walked the rest of the way to the stadium in a more chastened frame of mind, and my feet deliberately out of time with those of my marching escort.