Requiem for a Slave Read online

  He frowned with concentration, anxious to earn that second half-denarius. ‘I suppose it’s possible they’ve locked him up themselves. If they produce him for the hearing, that is all that is required.’ He brightened. ‘That would make a lot of sense, supposing there is somewhere they can keep him safe till then. And I expect there is – a man who keeps a private guard like that won’t be short of a denarius or two.’

  I nodded grimly. ‘What decurion is? It is a requirement that a man has a certain value of estate before he is available to be elected to the post.’

  ‘You know whose guard it was, then?’ Scowler looked surprised. ‘No one seemed to know.’

  ‘The decurion who put the warrant out, I’m sure.’

  ‘The one who arranged for us to come and get the corpse from you?’ He sounded diffident. ‘Well, I know where you can find him, if that’s so. He’ll be at the curia, or on his way to it. The ordo has a special session there this afternoon, and I think I heard the bugle just before you came.’

  I nodded. ‘Then he will be on his way to the basilica by now. If I miss him there, I’ll try his town apartment later on. I know where that is too.’

  Though it would not be easy to persuade him to set Minimus free, I thought. Quintus had a stubborn streak and hated to be wrong, and he’d decided yesterday that the slave-boy was guilty – if not actually of killing Lucius, then at least of stealing his purse and running off with it. No doubt his accusation would carry weight in court. The only way to change his mind would be to find the murderer. And very soon at that.

  A chief decurion would have no trouble arranging for a trial, especially when it did not require a proper magistrate. In fact, it might not even require a proper court. For the likes of Minimus, a hearing was often conducted out of doors, in an open courtyard with someone unimportant presiding over it – and where an acclamation by the lookers-on would be enough to seal the poor lad’s fate. Unless, of course, the official torturers had already been to work and extorted a confession, as they sometimes did. That picture was so dreadful that I dragged my mind away.

  ‘You say he was arrested some time yesterday?’ I said, already making calculations in my mind. ‘When did you hear of it?’

  Scowler pushed his helmet up and scratched his grizzled head. ‘When I came off duty, about mid-afternoon I suppose it must have been. I tried to tell you then – you seemed to be so anxious to find out where he was that I knew you’d make it worth my while. So I went back to your shop, but I couldn’t find you there, so then I tried to keep a lookout at the gate – I heard you generally pass this way – but there was still no sign of you, until just now, that is.’

  I shook my head. ‘Last night I didn’t come this way at all.’ Which was a pity – I could have saved myself a lot of worry if I had. I turned to Scowler and fished beneath my toga folds into the draw-purse which I carried at my belt. ‘Here’s the half-denarius I promised you.’ I scarcely had a chance to hold it out to him before he’d seized it from me and put it in the arm pouch under his tunic sleeve. He clearly didn’t want the sentry – or anyone else – to see.

  ‘And the other half?’ he muttered. ‘When do I get that?’

  ‘When I have located him. And if I find that there is something more that you could have told me now, I shall withhold the money. Do you understand?’

  Scowler’s frown came down upon him like a cloud, but his tone was wheedling. ‘Would I cheat you, citizen?’ he said.

  I rather thought he might do, if he had the chance, but I didn’t say as much. Instead, I attempted to look businesslike. ‘Then I shall see you here this evening about the time the sun goes down. If I have found out where he is, you’ll have your coin.’

  He was still staring after me as I walked through the gate and made my way towards the centre of the town. thinking of what I would say to Quintus when we met.

  On reflection, I did not believe that he would let the slave be harmed – not at least while in his custody: he was too aware of who the legal owner was. That was some comfort to me. But equally I did not think that he would let him go. It seemed he genuinely believed in Minimus’s guilt – otherwise, why bring the charge at all? But perhaps he would not hasten to a trial. Why take the boy into private custody unless he intended to delay? Or did he, on the contrary, intend to rush it through: to demonstrate to Marcus that I’d been negligent, firstly by not keeping an adequate watch upon the boy and then by encouraging him to independent thought?

  Indeed, I realized suddenly, I might find myself arraigned – diminishing the quality of someone else’s slave, physically or morally, was a criminal offence, tantamount to damaging his goods. That was not a comfortable possibility, and it made it still more urgent that I found the truth.

  I was hurrying towards the forum all this time, down the wide thoroughfare that led into the centre of the town, still debating whether I should call at the curia at once, or if it was too late and I would have to intercept Quintus later on at home, at the apartment which he kept up in the town. (Like every other office-holder in the curia, he was obliged to maintain a property of a certain size within the walls, although, in common with Marcus and most other wealthy men, he owned a villa in the country too.) Surely he would already be at the basilica by now.

  I hurried in that direction all the same, past the serried ranks of statues on their plinths and avoiding the traders who stepped out in my path and tried to interest me in what they had for sale – everything from woven carpets and expensive samian bowls to buckets of live eels – piled up on the makeshift stalls that crammed the pavement and spilled out on the street. I was side-stepping a particularly persistent shoe-seller, who would not believe that I did not want a pair of sandals made for me today, when a quartet of litter-bearers jogged past at that semi-run they often use in town. They were carrying a particularly fancy equipage with embroidered curtains that I recognized at once. This was the litter of Quintus Severus and, as I could make out through the half-drawn draperies, he was himself the only passenger, and he did not seem to be accompanied by Hyperius this time.

  That sharpened my endeavours. I disengaged myself abruptly from the sandal-man, stepped over a neighbouring display of leather belts, narrowly avoided upsetting the ink of an amanuensis writing letters for a client, and pushed into the road. But I was impeded by my Roman dress (a toga is not an easy thing to hurry in), while the bearers wore short tunics to leave their long legs free. Besides they were strong and youthful men, accustomed to their trade, so by the time I had struggled to the carriageway the litter was already a long way down the street.

  I don’t know if you have ever tried to break into a run wearing a toga, but if you have, you’ll know that it is near impossible. The garment instantly unfolds itself and loops around your knees. There was nothing for it. I could not remove my toga in a public place, so I did the next best thing: stripped off my cloak, wound it into a sort of tourniquet around my hips, then pulled up my errant toga loops and stuffed them into it. At least, that way, my hairy legs were free. Thus, cutting a most undignified figure, and to the accompaniment of hoots and catcalls from the onlookers, I roused myself into a lumbering trot and set off in pursuit.

  Sixteen

  They were entering the forum when I caught up with them, and by the time that I had stopped and caught my breath enough to speak – bending over and resting my hands upon my knees, while my chest heaved with the effort of unaccustomed exercise – the bearers had drawn the litter to a halt and Quintus himself was getting out of it.

  ‘Quintus, Decurion . . .’ I managed between gasps, positioning myself where he’d catch sight of me. ‘A thousand pardons for pursuing you . . .’

  He gave me a look I shall remember all my life: such a mixture of outrage, contempt and disbelief that I stopped in confusion. The tanner would have no need of Glypto’s caustic brews if he could have borrowed such a look to treat his hides – so scathing that it could have stripped mere hairs off in a trice.

  Quintu
s’s tone, when he addressed me, was just as withering. ‘Citizen Libertus? Do I believe my eyes?’ He sounded quite aghast, and, looking around, I saw that I’d attracted a little crowd of spectators. ‘What are you doing here, and in that state of dress? Must you continually make an exhibition of yourself?’

  I glanced down at my unconventional attire, undid my makeshift belt and pulled my toga down around me more decently again, painfully aware of its descending loops. ‘I’m sorry, councillor,’ I panted. It was wise to sound contrite. What I had done was a technical offence – a citizen is supposed to wear a toga in public at all times, especially in the forum, and I had just dishonoured that official badge of Roman pride. I could only hope that stickler Quintus would not choose to make an issue of my lapse. He was very clearly the sort of man who might, so I went on hastily, between painful gasps of breath, ‘But it was essential . . . mightiness . . . that I should speak to you at once . . . on a matter of considerable . . . urgency.’

  He looked at me coldly. ‘Concerning what?’

  I was still panting heavily, but I managed to get out, ‘It concerns the slave that my patron lent to me – the one that went missing from my workshop yesterday. I understand you put an order out for his arrest?’

  If Quintus’s manner had been frosty up till now, it was positively dripping icicles at this. ‘I warned you at the time that I intended to do that. Your weakness for the boy has clearly blinded you. The evidence was clear for anyone to see – the empty purse was found upon his person, did you know? Quite enough to have him tried for robbery and possibly for homicide as well. To say nothing of the way that he had run off from his post – against your explicit orders as I understand.’

  Of course, I hadn’t known that they had found the purse. As Quintus had expressed it, even I had to concede that things did not sound good, and the group of spectators (who had been following all this with fascinated ears) began to hoot and jeer. I said, with what tatters of dignity were left, ‘I’m convinced the lad is not a criminal. Just let me talk to him. I’m sure he can explain.’

  One lone voice in the crowd called out in my support. ‘That’s right, councillor. Give the lad a chance before they nail him up. That’s only justice!’

  My unexpected ally was shouted down, of course, and snatched at and severely jostled by the mob, but he gave me the confidence to press the point. ‘Just tell me where you’re holding my little slave-boy, Decurion Quintus, and I’ll go there at once.’ I paused, debating whether to offer payment for the privilege, or whether Quintus would choose to be offended by the thought and accuse me of attempting to bribe a councillor.

  The patrician forehead had furrowed in a frown. One hand clutched his toga front and he lifted the other in a commanding stance, as if he were posing for a statue of himself. Then, raising his voice and addressing the onlookers rather than myself, he said, in the formal Latin of the court, ‘Citizens! Libertus! You misunderstand. I did put out an order to apprehend this slave and was intending to take him to the jail, but by the time I reached the garrison it seems I was too late. I learned that the boy had already been detained. And with incriminating evidence, as I said before.’

  It took me a moment to take in the enormity of this ‘You mean . . .’

  He looked at me with condescension. ‘Exactly, citizen. I do not have your slave. And, before you ask, I do not know who has. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend. Important business concerning candidates for the vacant ordo seat, and we want to get arrangements finished before your patron comes.’ And with that he turned away and hurried up the steps.

  There was sporadic clapping at this little speech – and a good deal of jeering and merriment at my expense – but after the decurion had left there was nothing else to see, and one by one the onlookers began to drift away.

  Clearly there was nothing further here for me either. I was shocked and sickened by the news I had received – the so-called evidence would be almost certain to ensure that anyone accused, in particular a slave, was likely to be tortured until he had confessed – but there was no help for it. I was no closer to knowing where Minimus was held. No doubt Junio would be waiting for me at the workshop now and might have useful information about the messenger, and together we could make renewed enquiries. I ignored the few remaining gawpers, readjusted my dishevelled tunic folds as best I could, put on my cloak again and set off for my workshop as quickly as I could.

  I was half-expecting to find Radixrapum waiting at my door, demanding the money that I owed him, but although the street was crammed as usual with passers-by – pedestrians and street-vendors and various scurrying slaves – the shop was closed and shuttered, as I‘d left it yesterday, and there was no sign of the turnip-seller anywhere nearby. Neither did it seem that Junio and Maximus were here. Never mind, I would find a stool and sit and wait for them.

  I went over to unshutter the door and go inside – I had never invested in an elaborate lock – but the heavy board was not securely in place. I would have to speak to Gwellia and Junio about that; obviously they had not pulled it properly across the night before, though it seemed they’d shuttered the window space all right. The room was darkened as I pushed the door ajar.

  I was about to enter, but suddenly I paused. I knew it was ridiculous, but now that I was here I was all at once reluctant to go into the room – the lingering memory of Lucius’s corpse was too much in my thoughts. I even imagined that I could still detect a faint unpleasant smell. Besides, I told myself, the workroom had yet to be ritually cleansed (though I had spoken to the priest about it at the naming day), and if I were to enter it again, this morning’s careful purification of myself would be undone. There was no need to go in there till the priest had been – I had my tools and everything I needed for the job I had to do, and Junio could meet me just as well outside.

  So I reached around and found Minimus’s stool, then took up my position in the outer shop, where I could keep a lookout for Junio when he came. However, I was not destined to be long alone. The tanner had come out into the street and was heatedly talking to a customer at his gate, clearly haggling about the price of skins. He looked over and saw me, and raised one hand in a surprised salute. He went back to his wrangling for a little while, but – though with his crossed eyes it was hard to tell – he seemed to be glancing in my direction all the time.

  So I was not entirely astonished, when the deal was struck and his visitor had gone off with his piece of hide, to see my neighbour hasten over, wiping his hands on his sacking apron as he came and baring his one tooth in his gummy smile.

  ‘My greetings, citizen,’ he said in his cracked voice, raising his usual mumble to a louder tone. ‘How nice to see you here.’ His uneven eyes were nearly popping from his head and he was clearly bursting with surprise at seeing me at all.

  I could not altogether fathom why. Of course, he knew about the army cart – he’d mentioned it to Gwellia and my family yesterday – but nothing could be more commonplace than my coming to the shop, if only to arrange to have it cleansed. Most likely he was simply curious as to who had died, and I was not anxious to encourage him, so I stripped off my cloak as though I meant to work and said blandly, ‘Where else should I be? The naming day is over and I have contracts to complete.’ To give emphasis to this, I reached across to my precious stockpile of imported stone and began to sort the contents according to the quality of colour and evenness of grain.

  ‘Of course.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Only I heard that you’d had some kind of accident. I was afraid . . .’ he tailed off, spreading his stained hands apologetically. ‘But I see that it was just another of Glypto’s foolish tales.’

  ‘Glypto told you I’d had an accident?’ I looked up at him, surprised. I had half my mind upon the stones by now and, before I really thought it out, I blurted, ‘Did you send a messenger to my house saying so?’

  He looked at me as if I’d taken leave of all my wits. ‘That I didn’t, citizen. Though I knew that one h
ad been. Your wife and slave both came here yesterday, and I called to assure them that I’d seen you safe and well . . .’

  ‘Of course!’ I murmured apologetically, selecting a particularly pretty piece of bluestone from the pile.

  He ignored that observation, and went on, ‘But when Glypto came to me this morning with this tale, naturally I assumed that they were right and I was wrong, and you’d come to some harm after you left here. And when he spoke of hearing someone on your premises, obviously I supposed that it was one of them come back. So what would be the point of sending to your house?’

  It was my turn to boggle. ‘Wait a moment. Let me understand. Glypto heard this after my wife and son were here?’

  He gave the ugly grin that showed his solitary tooth. ‘Haven’t I just said so, citizen?’

  I put the bluestone down and shook my head in disbelief. ‘But this morning I was at the bulla ceremony of my grandchild at my house, and anyone who knows me knew that I was there. Even my customers attended or sent gifts. Who could possibly have come here to the shop?’

  The tanner made that spreading gesture with his hands again. ‘Probably there wasn’t anyone at all. I told you it was only one of Glypto’s tales – and he’s half-crazy with the tanning fumes. He gets these things confused. He half-heard something from the courtyard in the dusk, I expect, and invented all these tales of people prowling in the dark. Convinced himself, I shouldn’t be surprised.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps my wife is right, and I should sell him on.’

  But I was hardly listening. ‘In the dark?’ I echoed. This wasn’t making sense. ‘I thought you said “this morning”?’

  ‘That’s when I heard of it.’

  ‘But Glypto heard something from the courtyard “in the dusk”. What was he doing there?’ I had visions of him sending the old slave out at night on purpose to spy on my workshop through the gate.