The Chariots of Calyx Read online

  ‘There are other rumours in the household, lady,’ I said. ‘Your mother-in-law blames Fortunatus for this murder, as I expect you know – and she seems at first sight to have reason on her side.’

  Fulvia looked at me incredulously. Reason and Annia Augusta were obviously not often bracketed together in her mind.

  I shrugged. ‘Consider. Fortunatus wanted you – but you had a husband, so he could not have you. That is a common enough motive for murder. It would have been easy for you to let him in: over the wall, perhaps. I imagine a man of his physical prowess could scale it easily. You could have drugged the wine in advance – you told me that you have an understanding of potions – and he strangles Monnius while the servants are asleep.’

  ‘And tries to stab me, citizen? You think he would do that?’

  ‘Perhaps he did it on purpose to divert suspicion. No one would suspect Fortunatus of attacking you.’

  ‘I see!’ She smiled wryly. ‘You must think me very brave, citizen, to have permitted that. Suppose that he had lost his nerve, or stabbed me in the wrong place in the dark? None the less, I salute you. An ingenious explanation. But not true. Fortunatus did not kill my husband, citizen. Not even without my assistance – and certainly I did not help him or anyone else. Whoever killed Monnius, it cannot have been him.’

  I raised my brows at her. ‘You are very certain of that.’

  ‘I am more than certain. It was a Roman feast-day yesterday, and there is a great five-day chariot-racing spectacular at Verulamium, in honour of the occasion. That is why Fortunatus did not attend my husband’s banquet, as he often does. He was in Verulamium, driving for his colour.’

  ‘In Verulamium?’ I said, stupidly.

  ‘All the Londinium factiones have gone there – one of the town authorities struck a bargain with the managers for the Londinium teams to come and race for their colours. He was promising huge sums in prize money besides. Do not look at me so doubtfully, citizen. There must have been a thousand witnesses – the last time Fortunatus appeared in Verulamium there was not a free seat in the stadium and people in the street outside were still fighting to get in.’

  I sighed. The neat little mosaic of a theory I had carefully constructed had just shattered into a hundred pieces. If Fortunatus was racing in Verulamium, he could not have killed the frumentarius.

  I know a little bit about chariot racing – it is thought of as a Roman institution, of course, but we were racing warcarts on this island before Julius Caesar ever set foot here, and, like every other Celt, I attend whenever my business makes it possible. Of course the races in Glevum are not professional affairs as they are in Londinium – the drivers there are simply members of the college of youth, and the track is a makeshift affair with wooden stakes hammered in to mark the turning points – but the racing itself is no less exciting for that.

  Of course it would be a little different in Verulamium. It is a large town – it was once the capital of the local tribes – but I doubted that it had a purpose-built stadium either. No doubt sponsoring a real spectacle, with professionals coming all the way from Londinium, was someone’s way of impressing the populace and winning support for public office. Wealthy patrons of the factiones in every town do the same thing – queuing up for the honour of offering financial support to the colour of their choice, and even sometimes bringing teams from overseas. Presumably it works – entrance to these things is traditionally free, and there are always passionate crowds at even the smallest races.

  In Verulamium probably half the town would have turned out, as Fulvia said. I could imagine it: scuffles for seats and fist-fights for the best vantage points in the standing spaces, while the visiting charioteers – with their whole retinue of stable boys, managers, guards and medical attendants – became the idols of the entire community, followed and cheered at wherever they went.

  So how could Fortunatus simply have disappeared for the night? It was impossible. He would have been guarded to the hilt for one thing – people stake whole fortunes on the outcome of a chariot race, and there have been too many attempts in recent years to interfere with drivers and horses. Even in Glevum last year we had someone trying to dope the favourite, and stick a dagger between the driver’s ribs. Fortunatus, the most famous charioteer of all, could no more have slipped off for an evening unobserved than the Emperor could have done so himself.

  Besides, Verulamium is several hours away even on a good horse in broad daylight. Not even Fortunatus could possibly have raced all day – and it would have been all day, the organisers like to get value for their money – galloped to Londinium in the dark to strangle Monnius and then popped back to Verulamium again in time to start all over first thing in the morning.

  So if it was not Fortunatus, who was it? He could have paid someone else to do it, of course – and invited blackmail for the rest of his days. The charioteer was a rich man and the penalties for conspiracy were fearful.

  ‘In any case,’ Fulvia was saying, breaking into my thoughts, ‘I saw the man. The figure I saw at my bedside was taller and broader than Fortunatus. I assure you, citizen, I would have recognised him.’ She gave me one of those sideways looks again, and sighed. She was delectable. No wonder they nicknamed the charioteer ‘fortunatus’.

  A renewed waft of smoke and incense from the next room reminded me of my duty. The undertakers had clearly lit the remaining candles. I said, ‘Then I must thank you, lady, for your help, and apologise for having taken up your time. You must be anxious to prepare the lament.’ To make the ritual washing of her hands and put the ashes on her head, I meant, but the words sounded unintentionally ironic.

  She looked at me gravely. ‘I will lament my husband, citizen, and sincerely too. Monnius was an uncouth bedfellow – I will not pretend otherwise – but he was good to me in his way. If he was suspicious about Fortunatus – and I’m sure his mother saw to that! – he was content to ignore it, provided that I was discreet in public and never showed a lack of compliance when he came to me. In fact, I think the notion sometimes excited him.’

  I was on the point of leaving, but that stopped me. I tried to imagine feeling ‘excited’, when I was young, had someone made advances to my beloved wife. I failed. I forced the thought aside, and said, ‘How so?’

  She laughed, gaily. ‘Fortunatus is young, rich, strong and famous. He could have any woman he wanted – and he wanted me. I think that made me seem more desirable to my husband.’

  ‘Because you belonged to him?’ I said slowly. It might be true. Jealousy, and a frenzied imagination, can lead to a kind of furious possession. Most Roman men would have their wives executed, or at least divorced and exiled to some barren island, if even a hint of infidelity had attached to them. Yet as Annia herself had told me, Monnius had brushed aside all his mother’s warnings, and become even more fiercely besotted with his wife. And, I reminded myself, he permitted his first wife to live in the annexe.

  ‘Exactly, citizen. You understand me, I think.’ She smiled at me again, stirring a little on the bed and showing those uneven teeth. The effect was oddly provocative – like her words. No wonder Monnius and Fortunatus had fallen captive to her charms. I glanced uneasily at the two pageboys, but they just went on wafting the smoke away from under the door, their faces blank as stone.

  ‘Well, I will leave you, lady,’ I said again. ‘If Fortunatus did not kill your husband, then I must discover who did. And who it was who drugged the slaves last night. If it was not you yourself?’

  She laughed. ‘I assure you, citizen, my expertise with herbs does not extend so far. A simple remedy for croup I might manage, or an ointment for bruising, but not a potent sleeping draught! I would never be certain it would work. Indeed, when I want one for my own use – on those occasions which Prisca was telling you of – I have Lydia make me one.’

  ‘Lydia?’ Monnius’ former wife had not impressed me as a woman of many talents.

  ‘Oh, indeed, citizen. It is one of the womanly skills in which An
nia Augusta continues to encourage her – one of the wifely virtues in which she outdoes me. Annia has taught her everything she knows – only, of course, I could scarcely ask Annia herself. You can imagine what she would say if I requested a sleeping draught.’

  I could imagine. ‘And did you ever use one on your husband? To ensure that he slept when Fortunatus came?’ If Monnius had been drugged the night before, I thought, it would explain much about the manner of his death.

  ‘I never entertained Fortunatus when my husband was in the house, citizen. I have some notion of duty. I used the sleeping potion for myself – when Monnius had been to my bed I sometimes found it difficult to sleep.’

  ‘And yet,’ I said, struck by a sudden thought, ‘you did not take it last night?’

  The playful smile vanished and she frowned. ‘But I did, citizen. I always do. Dear Jupiter, I had not thought of that. The death of Monnius drove it from my mind. I took the potion, yet I did not sleep. You think . . .?’

  ‘That someone used your sleeping draught to drug the servants? It seems a likely explanation. Could Monnius have drunk any of it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why would he drink the watered dregs left out for the servants?’

  ‘There would not be sufficient in your draught, surely, to drug a whole container full of that?’

  She shook her head. ‘There might well be, citizen. It is only days since I took possession of a whole large jar of sleeping potion. I have Lydia make a large amount, once a month when Annia is not in the house, and I refill my little phial every night. But how would anyone find it? I keep it carefully hidden.’ She clapped her hands, and the two lads sprang instantly to life. ‘In the large chest there, under the clothing, you will find the container. Show it to the citizen, boy.’

  One of the pages scurried over and was already opening the great carved box for me, removing the garments which Prisca had so neatly stacked there. There it was: a glazed jar, about the size of a small water pitcher, neatly stoppered with a wooden insert. It was wedged firmly into place with folded underlinen, and a small drinking vessel had been packed beside it.

  I motioned to the boy and he removed the jar from the chest. From the way he handled it and carried it carefully to me, I could see that it was heavy. I took it from him, and with difficulty removed the stopper. The jug was almost full.

  I dipped an exploratory finger into the liquid, and sniffed. I could detect nothing. The faintest smell of herbs perhaps, but that was all.

  I turned to Fulvia, who was frowning at me, perplexed. ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that someone has refilled the flask with water. If you drank only this, it would explain why you did not sleep last night.’ I handed the container back to the page, and had him pour me some. I was about to take a very cautious sip – not without a certain trepidation – when Fulvia forestalled me.

  ‘Drink that potion for him, boy. It may not be as harmless as he thinks.’

  This was a brutally Roman way of resolving uncertainty. I had no time to protest, however. By the time I had exclaimed ‘No, wait!’ the page, with the dreadful resigned obedience of slave-boys everywhere, had already raised the drinking cup and emptied most of it down his throat.

  I gave a heavy sigh. I have never become accustomed to watching a poison-taster at work. There was nothing to do now but wait to see if the draught had killed him.

  Chapter Eight

  To my relief – and certainly to his – whatever the pageboy had swallowed appeared to have done him no harm. After a few moments Fulvia gestured to him and, the colour returning slowly to his cheeks, he set down the cup again and returned to his station by the window.

  Fulvia said, uneasily, ‘It seems you were right, citizen. No wonder my slumbers were not very deep last night. Luckily the liquid was not poisoned. Perhaps I should be careful what I eat and drink – if someone tampered in the kitchens once, they might do it again. I must use a servant as taster. Although it seems our unknown visitor did me an unwitting service – if I had been as soundly drugged as my slaves last night, perhaps I would have suffered far more than a gashed arm.’

  I nodded. ‘So whoever did this must have known you had the sleeping draught. He steals it from your room, pours it into the servants’ wine, and replaces the liquid with water from – where?’

  She shrugged. ‘There is always water in the kitchens, citizen. Barrels of it. We bought this house because it was convenient for the corn office but it is not connected to the city water supply. Monnius is . . . was . . . always talking of it. He made many other alterations, like building the annexe, but he decided it would be too expensive to bring water on to the property. I think Fortunatus put him off. He has bought himself a large house in the city for when he retires and is having it rebuilt, but the price of joining it to the town supply has been enormous. He has even had to delay the building work while they lift the pavement and extend the pipes. Monnius could not live with such disruption. It is very little problem for the slaves to fetch water for us, and somehow it has never seemed worth the cost of laying the channels and paying the water charges.’

  ‘Do you have a private well?’

  ‘Of course. It fails sometimes, but even so we are close to the Wall Brook and the public cistern. There is even a rain barrel in the garden to catch the water off the roof gutter. Monnius used to say that if a property has piped water, it also has to have a drain, and that would cost us, too. We are a large household and he had arranged quite a lucrative contract with the local toga-weavers for the contents of the chamber pots.’

  I understood that. Fine wool and leather is often softened and bleached by being soaked in urine – it improves the texture and the colour of the finished garment – and owners of the workshops often leave hopeful pots in public places on market day, or contract for collection of the commodity from private and communal sources. There is a tannery right next door to my little workshop in Glevum, and I have a similar arrangement with them – though it has never occurred to me to ask for money for my services.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘replacing the sleeping draught with water would present no difficulty at all – provided of course that our intruder was sure that the kitchen would be empty, and that you were not in your room?’

  She flushed like a child. ‘You are quite right, of course, citizen. I had not thought of that. It does rather suggest a knowledge of the household – or a close surveillance of our movements, at least.’ She shifted on her pillows, making her long robes rustle. ‘Though perhaps it might not have been so difficult, last night. Monnius held a banquet. Most of the servants were occupied with that, and for much of the time I was with him, playing the cithara and singing for the guests. My father’s education again, you see. It would have been easy for anyone to slip into my room, open the chest and substitute one flagon for another.’

  There seemed to me to be some objections to that, but I did not express them to Fulvia.

  She noted my silence. ‘You look thoughtful, citizen.’

  I smiled. ‘I was wondering why, in that case, this intruder did not steal your silver chain at the same time? I presume you do keep it in this room?’

  Fulvia sat herself a little more upright and gestured to the page again. ‘Bring me my casket, here.’

  He took down a small gilded box from the shelf and gave it to Fulvia. She opened the clasp and passed it to me wordlessly. Inside were a number of fine jewelled pins and necklaces, including a triple-stranded silver chain exactly like the one I was carrying in the roll of cloth hidden in my belt.

  ‘This casket was not locked?’

  ‘No. There is a key, but it is cumbersome, and I do not often use it.’

  ‘And yet your intruder did not steal your chain. I wonder why?’ I said again.

  ‘Simple, citizen. It was not here. I was wearing it last evening at the feast.’

  I frowned. ‘Then why not steal another of your necklets? You have a number here, equally strong and pliable. I still do not understand it. Why go
to the trouble of finding another chain, of precisely the same pattern as yours, to strangle Caius Monnius with? It makes no sense unless the murderer wished to implicate you. That similarity of design is no coincidence.’

  She laughed aloud. ‘It is even less of a coincidence than you suppose, citizen. A second chain of that pattern would not be hard to find. You can thank Annia Augusta for that. When Monnius first gave the ornament to me – a gift for Janus’ feast last year – his mother first pretended to admire it, and then persuaded him that she must have one exactly like it made for her.’

  One of Jove’s thunderbolts could not have surprised me more. ‘Great Jupiter! Monnius was murdered with his mother’s chain?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Annia, in turn, presented one to Lydia – so that she would not feel “excluded” from the family. It was done as an insult to me, of course. Monnius was a fool to agree to her demands in the first place.’ A small flush of anger rose to her cheeks as she spoke, making her look more beautiful than ever. ‘I was so furious that I almost insisted he bought one for the servant-girls – he had made the pattern so commonplace. I would not have Lydia and Annia Augusta preening themselves in copies of his presents to me, as if they stood equally in his esteem. I told him so. He blustered and squirmed, as he always did, but he admitted he was wrong in the end. He bought me a very pretty ring as an apology.’

  Between his wife and Annia Augusta, I thought, Monnius sometimes had as little freedom as I did, for all his riches. I, at least, had only one patron to please. ‘Then there were at least two other necklaces in the household exactly like your own?’

  ‘They are not as fine as this one, but they are all of the same pattern.’ With the help of one of the pages, she swung herself round so that she was sitting on the side of the bed facing away from me. She passed the casket to the slave, who put it on the shelf, while the other boy put down his fan and came hurrying over with a pair of embroidered slippers. ‘That is one reason why I rarely wear my own version of the ornament.’