Requiem for a Slave Read online

  Quintus made a disapproving face. ‘Better to inform the garrison authorities, and they will come round with a cart and put the corpse in a communal grave. It is not a council matter, since we’re outside the gates. You will want to have the workshop ritually cleansed to get rid of evil omens as soon as possible, I suppose – and you can’t do that until the body has been moved. Though it may cost you a little to have them bury it – he is not strictly a vagrant or a criminal.’

  I winced. I had seen them put bodies in the common pit before – tipped in without ceremony and covered up with lime. It was not what I would have chosen for Lucius at all, but it’s where he would have ended if he’d dropped dead in the street, and a proper funeral was an expensive thing and would mean a full two days of mourning closure for the shop. Besides, Quintus was right about the cleansing rites. No customer would come to a workshop where a murdered corpse had lain, for fear that it was cursed – only a proper ritual would dispel the fears. That would involve an expensive sacrifice at least, and probably a priest with incense, scattering water on the floor. This business was already likely to cost more than I could easily afford.

  Quintus was looking questioningly at me. ‘I could alert the gatehouse as I go home, perhaps. Then they can send a party later on.’

  ‘Someone had better go and tell his mother, just in case,’ I said aloud. ‘Though I suppose that I will have to see to that myself. It’s not a task that I look forward to.’

  He looked at me, astonished. ‘Get a slave to do it – you do have a slave, I suppose. Don’t I remember that Marcus lent you some?’

  I nodded glumly. ‘Two little matching boys. And that’s another thing. One of them, who was attending me today, seems to have disappeared. I fear the killers may have kidnapped him.’

  Quintus stared at me. His attendant made a stifled noise. ‘What is it, Hyperius?’ the decurion said.

  ‘If I might be permitted, citizen . . .?’ The slave had a peculiarly unctuous tone of voice. ‘If the pavement-maker’s slave has disappeared, why should we suppose that bandits are involved? Surely it is likely that it was the slave who killed the pie-seller? Stole his purse and made a run for it?’

  Quintus looked absurdly pleased at this remark. ‘Of course. Well done, Hyperius. Marcus is not the only one to have a clever man to help.’ He turned to me. ‘With your reputation, citizen, I am surprised you didn’t think of that explanation for yourself.’

  ‘I did, decurion, but I dismissed it instantly – and so would you, if you had known my slave.’ It sounded impertinent and I hurried on, ‘Anyway, there is evidence that there was a much stronger hand at work.’ I explained about the tracks. ‘You – or your slave – can come and see it for yourself—’

  He cut me off with one impatient hand. ‘Of course, we shall do nothing so absurd. To come into your workshop is to invite a curse. We have already lingered here too long. I shall get in touch with the garrison and have them move the corpse, but I shall also tell them to look out for your page and hold him on suspicion of involvement in all this. Hyperius is right. It wouldn’t be the first time that a slave has stolen a purse and made a run for it.’

  I shuddered. To be apprehended as a fugitive slave is a serious affair, unless the slave can prove that his master was unnaturally cruel and he had gone to seek protection from a kinder one. And it did not require the master himself to bring the charge. Quintus would doubtless do exactly what he said, and that would make three capital offences of which Minimus was accused – running from his master, theft and homicide.

  ‘I’m sure that Minimus has done nothing of the kind,’ I protested, ready to give my reasons, but Quintus was already bridling and he cut me off.

  ‘That is only your opinion, which you can state in court if we do happen to apprehend the boy.’ He gave an unpleasant little smile. ‘Of course, the magistrates may wish to talk to you as well. We have only your word for it that you did not kill the man yourself.’

  I confess that stunned me. I realized that it would be difficult to prove that I had not – there was no one else to witness where I’d been and when.

  But Quintus did not pursue that train of thought. ‘Hyperius! The litter!’ he said imperiously. He turned to me again. ‘I fear that we shall have to forget that pavement after all.’

  Even in my state of shock I could not let that pass. ‘But we have a contract. A binding one, I think. You told me what you wanted, and we shook hands on it, in front of witnesses. Two senior members of the ordo in fact.’

  I was worried now. This commission had promised to be an especially lucrative one, and I had turned down other work on that account. That was not as imprudent as it seemed: I had a proper contract, and all decurions financed elaborate public works – it was expected of them (not surprisingly perhaps, since one of their chief duties was overseeing tax), and support for them among the populace was often commensurate with how much they spent. The new pavement for the basilica was a flamboyant one, and I had relied on earning quite a lot for it.

  The litter-slaves had brought the litter up, and Quintus paused in the act of getting into it. ‘I will speak to the aediles. Under the circumstances I think they will agree that the omens are too dreadful to proceed with this.’

  ‘And if I have the workshop ritually cleansed? And prove that no one working here had any part in this?’

  He shrugged. ‘By that time I fear that there would be insufficient time to get the pavement done. It would be difficult to do it now, in any case. A message arrived at the curia today, nominating a candidate for the vacant ordo seat – you will remember there was a councillor who died, and we are due to vote in a replacement in a day or so – and saying that Marcus hopes to be here very soon himself.’

  ‘Really?’ I attempted to look unconcerned, but secretly I was a little stung by this. I had told my patron of the vacant seat myself, in the monthly bulletin about the town which I had sent to him (at his express request but at my own expense), though I’d never had an answer or acknowledgement. He was naturally concerned about the ordo seat, and any candidate he gave his blessing to was sure to be elected, so I could understand that he had written to the curia, but, I thought, he could have let me know as well.

  Quintus was anxious to show how well informed he was. ‘I understand he has found a ship in Gaul and is already on his way, so there is hardly time to have a pavement laid. I shall have to content myself with giving a grand banquet at my home to welcome him, as that fool Pedronius has already announced that he will do.’ He saw my face and gave his sneering laugh. ‘You hadn’t heard that news? I had supposed you such a favourite that he’d have written to you first!’

  I shook my head. ‘If there was a message at my home today – as there might well have been – it had not arrived before my son and I set off for town,’ I said. There was some truth in this. My roundhouse was not far from my patron’s country house – indeed, he had given me the land to build it on – but in his absence the villa was closed up and only a few staff remained to keep it clean and aired.

  I was thinking fast by now. Perhaps it was as well that the contract would be void. If Marcus was already on a ship from Gaul, then he would be here in less than half a moon. That made it near impossible to lay the floor in time – this was no stock sample pattern that I held prepared – and failure would have cost me a considerable fine. Besides, Pedronius would want his plaque completed by then too, and there was well-known rivalry between the two officials. Perhaps Quintus was doing me a favour after all.

  But he had already climbed aboard the carrying-chair and pulled the litter curtains round him as a screen. So there was little that I could do except watch it move away, the bearers loping at a rapid pace while Quintus shouted ‘Faster!’ from the interior. My only consolation was to see Hyperius, already hot and breathless, trotting after them.

  Three

  I was still staring after them when I heard a noise behind me, and I turned round just in time to see the candle-maker from
the tallow factory next door. He had opened his street-gate a crack to watch the litter leave and was about to slam it shut again, but I was too quick for him. He was a surly fellow, but he might have seen something which would throw light on events, though if he had information I would have to pay for it. I shouted out to him, ‘Candle-maker, have you seen my slave at all? Or anybody calling at my shop this afternoon?’

  He was always unneighbourly, and I would not have been surprised if he had ignored me and gone away inside. However, he simply scowled and shrugged. ‘Your slave was here an hour or two ago; I haven’t seen him since. As for customers, I have no idea. I’m far too busy with my own affairs. Why ask me anyway? It isn’t my business to look out for yours.’ He went in and slammed the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the road.

  I stayed there a moment wondering what to do. Quintus intended to notify the authorities and have them move the corpse, but I wanted to speak to Lucius’s mother first, if possible. And I wanted urgently to try to find my slave. However, I still had a dead man lying on my floor and I did not feel able simply to leave the place.

  I could not even reasonably use the time to work, although I had a commission to accomplish fast. I hadn’t quite finished the Apollo plaque, and it was urgent that I did, since it was more than possible that the superstitious Pedronius would decline to pay if he learned that it had been in the company of a corpse. What’s more, I would be particularly dependent on the money from this job if the contract for Quintus’s pavement was to be annulled.

  If only we had taken the mosaic yesterday, when Junio and I had laid the mortar base on which it was to sit! There was only half an hour’s work, at most, to finish off the piece – all that was missing was a border at one end. It would be possible to fix the mosaic into place today – before any rumour of the murder got about and awkward questions started to be asked – if I could only get it there, but I did not have a handcart that I could move it on. Junio had borrowed ours to fetch the numerous supplies that would be wanted for tomorrow’s naming feast.

  It was doubly frustrating since I knew from my abortive visit to the villa earlier that the tax-inspector was now likely to be absent several days and could not possibly have heard about the death. But although the plaque was very near complete, glued upside down on to its linen back, and I had a terracotta tray prepared that I could move it on, I could not take it anywhere without a cart – not even from the shop into the street, where at least I could argue there was no question of a curse. Besides, I could hardly go inside my shop and do what was required with Lucius’s body still on my heap of edging tiles. Neither could I leave him till the army came.

  If only I had Junio at my side just now!

  ‘Important-looking customer you had this afternoon!’ The speaker made me jump.

  I turned to see the turnip-seller I had noticed earlier. He was a regular visitor to the area; a round, rough cheerful fellow with a stubbly beard and a brownish tunic smeared with earth and clay, which, together with his wide body and oddly skinny legs, gave him a marked resemblance to the wares he sold. People called him Radixrapum – ‘turnip root’ – though never to his face: a man who regularly wielded a spade and pushed a heavy barrow round the streets for hours was likely to be fit and handy in a fight.

  Radixrapum flashed his snaggled smile hopefully – I had occasionally bought a turnip from him in the past. ‘That fancy cloak and private carrying-chair! Must be someone wealthy. Hope he paid you well.’ It was clear what he was hinting: that I could spare an as or two.

  I shook my head. ‘I lost my contract with him, I’m afraid. There’s been an accident.’ I was about to turn away when a thought occurred to me. ‘You usually come here earlier than this. Have you been up and down this street previously today?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I came by twice before,’ he muttered with an embarrassed grin as if I’d accused him of something untoward. ‘I was hoping to find you.’

  ‘You haven’t seen anybody else outside my shop this afternoon?’

  He thought a moment and then said doubtfully, ‘No one that I can think of, except that red-haired slave of yours. He was here the first time I came – that would have been an hour or two ago.’

  ‘You are quite sure of that?’

  He nodded. ‘Fairly certain. Of course, I wasn’t taking any special notice at the time, and there are always lots of people moving to and fro – street-vendors and messengers and clients for the various businesses – but nobody near your workshop in particular. I would have noticed that, I think, because I was looking out for you. But you weren’t here, of course.’ He did the grin again. ‘I decided to go on into town and come back later on. And when I did come back, I saw the litter and realized there was no point in calling while your customer was here, so I went off round the corner and waited until now. I’m trying to sell these last few turnips so I can go back home.’ He gestured towards the barrow. ‘Very good for soup.’

  I shook my head again. ‘I shan’t be buying turnips to take home today,’ I said. ‘There’s been a tragedy. Lucius the pie-seller – do you know the man?’

  His round face puckered into a thoughtful frown. ‘I think I know the one. Fellow with an awful burn-mark who only has one eye? Grey-haired chap who sells the dreadful pies?’

  ‘Used to sell them,’ I corrected. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead. I found him in my workshop. Someone’s murdered him.’

  The turnip-seller whistled. ‘Murdered? Well, I’ll go to Dis! Poor old Lucius! He was harmless. Who’d want to murder him?’

  ‘That is what exactly I am trying to find out.’

  He looked at me. ‘Of course, you’re supposed to be clever at this sort of thing. Will you be able to catch whoever did it, do you think?’ He tapped his forefinger against his stubby nose. ‘Oh, now I understand. That’s why you were asking if I’d seen anyone. Well, I will think about it a bit more carefully, and if I remember anything, I’ll be sure to let you know. And, of course, if there’s anything else that I can do to help . . .’ He was already turning as if to move away.

  I prevented him by saying thoughtfully, ‘Well, in fact, there might be something you can do.’ I saw his startled face. ‘It’s nothing difficult. I want to find his mother and break the news to her. Would you be prepared to stand watch here for me? It doesn’t feel decent to leave the poor man lying there alone, and in any case the military might come to take the corpse. That decurion who was here said he’d ask them to do that. Someone will have to be here to meet them when they come.’ He was looking doubtful, and I added instantly, ‘I’ll give you half a sestertius if you’ll stay here while I go.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure that I’m very keen on keeping vigil for a corpse. Particularly a murder victim whom I scarcely knew.’ But he was clearly weakening. Turnip-selling was not a very profitable trade, and a half-sestertius is a handsome bribe. The promise of a silver coin was far too good to miss.

  I pressed my advantage. ‘And perhaps I’ll even buy a turnip too. But you must make up your mind. Will you stay here while I go and tell his mother what’s occurred, in case there are arrangements for a funeral? She’s only at the bake-oven, not very far away. But I’ll have to get there quickly, because if I don’t find her very soon, the army will be here and the body will be gone.’

  ‘And she’ll never have the chance to say goodbye or close the eyes. I know how much my wife would grieve if our son was lying dead and she could not perform those simple services for him. Very well, I’ll do it – to oblige you, citizen. Half a sestertius, I believe you said?’

  ‘Half a sestertius, when I get back again.’ I didn’t want him running off while I was gone. ‘But, on second thoughts, I don’t think I’ll ask his mother to come and close his eyes. They’re bulging from his head. Someone has pulled a cord around his neck. He doesn’t present a very pleasant spectacle.’

  The turnip-seller had that doubtful look again. ‘Well, perhaps you’d better close them yourself before
you go. They say that’s where the soul gets in and out – and we don’t want it coming back. I suppose you’ve called his name, and lit a candle at his head and feet?’

  Of course, I had done nothing of the kind. ‘I scarcely had the time,’ I said, with more asperity than I really meant. ‘In any case, as far as candles go, I didn’t have the means – someone has blown the lamps and tapers out and let the fire go cold, and I don’t have any tinder in the shop just now. I was going to get some embers from the neighbour’s premises.’

  ‘Well, I tell you what, citizen,’ the turnip-seller said. ‘You go and get them, and get the candles lit – I’ll stay here while you do it – and then I will stand watch. I wouldn’t want to do it otherwise: you hear how ghosts get restless if the earthly body isn’t treated right, and come back to haunt the place and people where they died. But if you’ve done everything that you could do for him, it would be different. Even if the army put him in a pit, some of the rites will have been properly observed, and there’s less chance of his spirit coming back to haunt.’

  I nodded. It was not a nonsensical idea, even if I was not afraid of meeting Lucius’s ghost! I could tell his mother that something had been done, and it might make the ritual cleansing afterwards a less expensive task. Besides, it would give the poor pie-seller a bit of dignity.

  ‘Very well,’ I conceded. ‘I’ll go inside and get something to put the embers in. While I am about it, I can close the eyes.’

  He gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘And call his name three times, the way you’re supposed to do.’ Any minute now he would recommend that I put a coin for the ferryman underneath the tongue, but he did not do that. Instead, he said, to my immense surprise, ‘In fact, while you’re about it, why don’t I come in too? Then you have a witness that you did it properly. And I’ll know exactly where to show the soldiers when they come. Or is the body too horrible to contemplate?’

  I realized suddenly what I should have seen before: that he was consumed with curiosity but far too superstitious to go in on his own. Perhaps he was also worried by my description of the corpse. I said, to reassure him, ‘It isn’t pleasant, but imagination often paints things more dreadful than they are.’