A Pattern of Blood Read online

‘That is what he came for? To ask for your release?’

  ‘Or to bargain for it, I think. I cannot be sure. Ulpius did not permit written communication between us. In any case, Lupus did not write well. That is why he needed a secretary.’

  ‘Because of his stiff hand?’ I asked.

  Mutuus shook his head. ‘I saw, today, that he was favouring his hand. He did not have a problem that I knew of. I only know that he could not write well – nor read for that matter – beyond carved capitals on inscriptions. He could read those. He took me out of town, more than once, to read me the inscriptions on the roadside tombs. I think he was proud of his achievement.’

  ‘But you did not see your adoptive father this morning?’

  ‘I saw him arrive, of course. He was in the ante-room with the other supplicants. I did not speak to him alone.’

  ‘Nor see him do anything suspicious?’

  Mutuus smiled wryly. ‘Citizen, I was sent to this room. The door was closed and so were the windows. How could I see anything from here? There is glass in the windows.’

  I saw Marcus glance at the windows. They were glazed, as Mutuus said, in the latest fashion, with little panes of expensive Roman glass – bluey-green in colour and wonderful for letting in light and keeping out draughts, but impossible to see through. He nodded in understanding.

  ‘I see. Thank you, citizen, you have been most helpful.’

  The significance of the title was not lost on Mutuus. For the first time since he had entered the room there was a genuine smile on his lips. ‘Thank you, Excellence. Please let me know if I can be of further help.’ He bowed deeply and left the room.

  ‘Well,’ Marcus said, as soon as he had gone. ‘That simplifies matters, doesn’t it? Ten denarii to an as it was Lupus who did it. I thought so when I met him. I’ve never seen a man look more guilty, but I could not see a motive. Now I understand. Wanted Mutuus back, and chose the quickest route to free him. And he’s hated Quintus for years. What do you think, Libertus?’

  I was thinking about a number of things, not least the fact that Mutuus had avoided answering my question about speaking to his father.

  ‘I think,’ I replied carefully, ‘that I should like to take another look around the garden, before it gets too dark to see.’

  Chapter Seven

  Marcus smiled indulgently but he was adamant. The questioning was merely a formality now, he felt, and the sooner these irksome requirements of justice were over and Lupus was under lock and key, the better for everyone. If this was a mere personal murder and not a political matter, his tone implied, his further interest in it was brisk. Why did I suddenly want to waste time looking around the grounds?

  I chose my words carefully. Marcus is a powerful man, and when it comes to the exercise of that power, it is dangerous to thwart him, even if he does call you ‘friend’. Sometimes especially if he calls you friend.

  ‘Excellence,’ I said, ‘I am a humble maker of mosaics. It troubles me to cut a piece which will not fit the pattern. Yet sometimes, seen from another angle, the solution is obvious. The tile which would not match the centrepiece finds a place in the border.’

  He looked at me wryly. ‘And which are the pieces of tile, to use your quaint analogy, which do not fit the pattern here? Everything points to Lupus. He had a pressing motive. He had the opportunity – he was in the front courtyard when the murder happened. He knew where the weapon was: the dagger was in full view when he was waiting in the ante-room earlier, and when he saw Mutuus leave the building he knew the coast was clear. Perhaps Mutuus even told him so – when you asked if he had spoken to Lupus this morning, he carefully avoided the question.’ He leaned forward from his chair and patted me on the shoulder. ‘You look surprised, old friend. Did you not notice that?’

  In fact, my surprise was occasioned by the fact that Marcus had noticed it himself, but I had more wit than to say so. ‘You are perceptive, Excellence.’

  He beamed. ‘Yes, I believe I am. There may be other suspects, Libertus, but one thing I am certain of: I know guilt when I see it. That old man had the smell of fear about him. Flavius may swear they were together in the garden, but I’ll wager there were times he turned his back. And they were at the chariot races, too.’ I must have looked dubious, because he waved his hand loftily. ‘Of course, I know you will argue that in that case Flavius might have committed the crime himself and that he hated Quintus too – but that old man Lupus has something to hide, or I’m a Druid.’

  ‘I am sure that you are right, Excellence,’ I said meekly. I did not mention the conversation I had overheard in the garden, or no doubt Lupus would have been clapped in irons then and there. In any case, I meant what I said. I, too, had the impression that Lupus knew more about this matter than he admitted, but I doubted that the solution was quite as clear-cut as Marcus supposed. It occurred to me, for instance, that an equal opportunity would have existed for Mutuus himself.

  Besides, Marcus’s reasoning was faulty, in at least one respect.

  I put it as delicately as I could. ‘Excellence,’ I said, ‘when Maximilian left his father, he didn’t, as far as we know, go into either courtyard garden. He came to us through the interior of the house. One reason I want to examine the grounds is to discover whether Lupus, or anyone else, could possibly have detected that. Otherwise, how could he know that Quintus was alone?’

  There was a moment while Marcus digested the implications of this, and then he said rather sourly, ‘Perhaps you are right. But don’t be long about it. I shall carry on the questioning while you are gone. I shall have Flavius in and ask him about that alibi. Otherwise we shall still be here at dawn.’

  This was not at all what I would have chosen, but I could not argue with Marcus, and it was too late to change my mind. I was regretting my decision by the time I reached the door, and when I saw that Maximilian was waiting impatiently on the veranda outside, I regretted it still more. He wore a dignified funeral wreath on his head and a ritual stole of rough sackcloth around his neck to signify sombre grief, but the impression he gave was one of barely concealed truculence.

  ‘At last, citizen!’ he exclaimed, as soon as he saw me. ‘I suppose this is what a man may expect, in his own house? To be summoned like a common servant and then left on the veranda, to be stared at by every passing menial sniggering behind their hands? My father would not even have used his meanest clients so.’

  There were indeed ‘menials’ about, though they had little time for sniggering. The house and courtyard were abuzz with activity. The door of the ante-room opposite was open now, and through it I could see a press of people – red-faced anointing women packing up their wicker baskets of oils on the table, and pallid funeral musicians tuning their pipes. Four perfectly matched slaves (how Quintus would have enjoyed that) were manoeuvring a heavy gilded bier on a litter from the courtyard in the direction of the reception room, from the invisible recesses of which a plume of pungent smoke was already rising – presumably the first of the herbs and candles were being lighted around the corpse. All this seemed to be taking place under the direction of Sollers, who was supervising operations from the interior of the ante-room. He looked up and saw me, and raised a hand in salute before the litter made its way inside and the outer door was closed again.

  ‘You see?’ Maximilian demanded. ‘I shall be wanted any minute. It is I who should be there with my father’s corpse, not Sollers. My father did not want me living – he has resented me since my childhood – but I should at least be beside him in his death. It is my place to put the coin in his mouth for his ferry fare over the Styx . . .’

  ‘And to start the lament,’ I finished. ‘I know. I am sure Marcus will not keep you long.’

  ‘There is nothing further I can tell him in any case. I came here to see my father, to do my filial duty, that is all.’

  ‘Except to ask for money,’ I reminded him.

  He scowled. ‘Well, yes. That too. But it was a trivial amount, no more than five hundred s
esterces.’

  Five hundred sestertces would keep me in comfort for weeks, but I said nothing.

  ‘Anyway, he wouldn’t give it to me. Ranted about my extravagance and then sent me off to look for Julia. That’s all.’

  I was about to tell him to explain it to Marcus, when a thought struck me. ‘And did you do it?’ I said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Look for Julia? Did you go anywhere else before you came to us?’

  He coloured. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember. What if I did? I was on my father’s errand.’

  ‘Maximilian,’ I said patiently, ‘think. You came here to borrow money. He refused you, even threatened to cut you out of his will. You were alone with him, and you knew there was a dagger on a table in the adjoining room. Shortly afterwards your father is found crawling about with that same knife in his back and your financial troubles are magically over. One does not need to be a Greek philosopher to draw a logical conclusion.’

  He gaped at me, all irritation gone. ‘You think . . .?’ – I saw the panic in his eyes – ‘You really think I killed him?’

  ‘I confess, citizen, that I find the circumstances just a little suspicious. Of course, if you are able to recall where you went when you left – whether you came straight to us, for example – that may assist you. Could anyone have seen you leave your father’s room, for instance?’

  He seemed to consider this, and hesitated, but he said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Marcus is waiting for you. Tell him your story, citizen, and try to sharpen your memory before he finds ways of doing it for you.’

  Maximilian gave me a scowl as though I were the personal cause of all his miseries, and slammed past me into the study. Shortly afterwards I heard the murmur of voices.

  In fact, simply by coming out here, I had answered one of my own questions. From here, between the screen of trees, I could see the front gate and most of the colonnaded walk: there was a clear view into the ante-room opposite, as I had just demonstrated, and Mutuus had been standing here earlier when he witnessed me eavesdropping by the hedge. Anyone leaving the study, or simply standing behind the open door, could take in most of the garden at a glance, apart from the deliberately secluded arbours. No other spot in the house commanded such a wide vista. Perhaps Quintus had designed it like that, on purpose, so that he could survey the fountains and greenery from the comfort of his study.

  I walked thoughtfully down the veranda of the study wing, and past the doorway which led into the atrium and so to the main rooms of the house. Through it I caught sight of pairs of slaves, still hurrying to and fro with platters and wine, and the sound of a lute and a plaintive song wafted from the triclinium. Lupus and Flavius, although unwilling guests, were evidently still enjoying the ‘light meal’ which Sollers had organised, presumably in Julia’s company. I shook myself impatiently. I had come to Corinium, at least in part, in the hope of continuing my search for Gwellia. Why should it matter to me where Julia was?

  I walked through the atrium and out into the rear courtyard again.

  It, too, was alive with industry. There were slaves everywhere: some scurrying past with serving dishes and lamps for the living, others clearly already preparing the memorial feast of the dead. Kitchen slaves were cutting sprigs of rosemary from the border, others were fetching water in wooden buckets from the fountain, or dried fruit and barley flour in brimming bowls from the stores. A brawny cook appeared, a brace of fat hens fluttering upside down in either hand, and as I watched, a party of slaves returned from the market stalls bearing between them a great side of bleeding meat, long strings of river fish and a dozen dead thrushes on a pole. The ghost of Quintus would not return vengeful from the afterworld because it had not been fed.

  The rear court was smaller than the front, and was divided into quarters by walkways radiating from the pool. Each quarter was planted with its own selection of sweet-scented plants and herbs for the kitchen, with a fruit tree at its centre, and each had a small grotto in the corner nearest the pool, presumably with a seat and a statue of one of the gods set on a plinth. Anyone crossing the courtyard, or using the covered path which skirted it, was clearly visible from all sides, and the slaves collecting herbs were constantly in view, unless they were momentarily screened by the statues and the trees, or simply by bending down among the plants.

  One figure, however, caught my eye. It was a female slave, with a cape drawn over her head and a jug in her hand, and her manner, as she came out of the kitchens, could only be described as ‘skulking’. She looked nervously to left and right, and then scuttled along one of the paths towards the pool. When she looked up and saw me, she dropped the jug and disappeared into a grotto. I was baffled. It was my presence, clearly, which she wanted to avoid – she had walked openly past the other servants.

  I waited for a moment, but she did not reappear. I thought of marching in and confronting her, but the girl had seemed so embarrassed that I decided to finish my stroll around the perimeter walk, and explore the grotto later.

  Like the rest of the house, the courtyard was built to impress, with fine mural patterns on the inner walls and a paved walkway linking the rooms under the sloping shelter of a roof. All the guest apartments, including my own, were on this side of the courtyard, and were self-contained. So were the kitchens, slave rooms, store rooms and latrines in the separate block at the back. Maximilian had once had a bedroom in the main block, in a small room near his father’s reception suite, reached by a second passage to the rear court. But Quintus, Julia and Sollers had their apartments in the wing opposite me.

  I wondered if any of the apartments were interconnecting. Usually rooms in courtyard houses are self-contained, with a blind wall to the outside world and a single doorway opening onto the inner walkway. I stopped a passing slave who was rolling a cask of fattened snails towards the kitchen, and he confirmed my guess. The rooms in the farther block were arranged as two suites. Sollers had a sleeping room with a small adjacent study, and there was an interconnecting door between the apartments of Quintus and his wife. For moments when he hoped to make a son, presumably. Marcus would not find that thought pleasing.

  I sent the slave about his business and continued my stroll. I kept glancing towards the central grotto, but wherever I stood, it was largely screened from view. The caped figure was invisible. When I turned my back, however, to glance into the slaves’ waiting room, there was a scuttling behind me, and I turned around just in time to see her slip out, retrieve her jug and scurry as fast as possible in the direction of the main block. She disappeared into the far passage and was gone.

  The light was fading now, and I was anxious to get back to Marcus before he finished his enquiries without me. Since he had mentally identified Lupus as the killer, I knew that his questions to everyone else were likely to be perfunctory.

  All the same, I wanted to examine the grotto. The girl had hidden there. Could a killer have done the same – perhaps even as Marcus and I were hurrying to the murder scene? I walked across and examined the bowers carefully, but there was nothing particular to see. No helpful fragments of cloth caught on the stone seats, no wisps of hair trailing on the branches, no footprints with distinctive hobnail patterns imprinted in the earth. I looked at the statues. They were half as high as a man, and elegantly carved. A predictable foursome: Jupiter, Mercury, Mars and Minerva. Quintus, it seemed, had a particular attachment to Minerva. It was her statue which I had also noted in the front courtyard, though this was a far superior sculpture.

  I moved a little closer. Certainly, someone in the household favoured the goddess. There had been recent oblations offered at the shrine. Small fragments of bread and morsels of honey cake had been scattered on the plinth, where the birds were accepting them gratefully, if Minerva had not. Someone had offered a libation too; there was a dark dampness in the fresh earth channel in front of the statue, as if someone had poured out a liberal cupful of red wine. I bent and touched my fingers to th
e earth.

  They came away sticky, and I gazed at them in dismay. A swift sniff confirmed my suspicions. The liquid had been red all right, but it was not wine. Someone had offered Minerva a libation of fresh blood.

  The caped girl had not put it there. She had dropped her jug before she went into the grotto, and in any case the libation was too old for that. Of course there was another possible explanation. Animal sacrifice is common at Roman festivals, the blood poured out by the officiant and the flesh eaten afterwards. In wealthy households like this, the monthly festivals were usually marked by a family sacrifice. Yet it was far from the first or last day of the month, and the earth was still moist. Even allowing for the general dampness of the air and soil, this blood had been spilled here not many hours ago. Since we had been at the house, I guessed. But there had been no mention of a memorial sacrifice, no family attendance at the shrine, and there had been none of the squawking and squealing which usually accompany the ritual slaughter of chickens, lambs or pigs.

  No: the more I thought of it, the more sure I became. This libation, if that was what it was, had been made earlier, and secretly. And in that case there was a possibility that the blood was human. Not, of course, that there was any way of finding that out for certain.

  It was a macabre thought and I got to my feet, shivering. I must report this to Marcus.

  As I turned to go, a sudden sound pierced the air, an unearthly, eerie, ululating wail that shivered the blood. It reached out mournfully to every shadowed corner, and echoed dismally around the empty columns.

  Maximilian had begun the lament.

  Chapter Eight

  I re-entered the house, to return to Marcus. In the atrium, however, I encountered a commotion. Two burly slaves swaggered self-importantly in from the front courtyard, each with a knife in his hand, and between them, prodded at dagger-point, with his head bowed and his arms bound firmly behind him, came Lupus.